


tell me about the dream

by playedwright



Series: kids are coming home [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix It, Found Family, Grief, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 78,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27984813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playedwright/pseuds/playedwright
Summary: “Shut up and listen,” Bobby says. “I ain’t calling about some monster, I’m calling about Castiel.”Dean freezes in place. “He’s alive?”“More’n that, Dean. He’s human.”On instinct, every atom in Dean’s body is on high alert. He starts moving, fingers already reaching for the keys he hangs up on a loose nail next to the door. “Where is he?”or, in which after lucifer hitches a ride to hell on sam's back, dean makes good on his promise to settle down. so what if it's with cas instead of lisa?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: kids are coming home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176476
Comments: 168
Kudos: 439





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i watched s6 recently and went through a lot of conflicting emotions then slid into cait and sabi's texts like hey what if instead of staying with lisa and ben, dean had made a little insta-family with cas and claire and then i accidentally had 8k of that to START so. whoops
> 
> title comes from a siken quote bc 95% of everything i post gets its title from a siken quote xoxo

Without the anticipatory air of an apocalyptic-grade fight hanging around, Stull Cemetery is just a place with people buried in dirt.

Dean kneels at the spot that swallowed up Sam, not even five minutes ago. Now that the ground is back where it belongs, the four rings lay atop the grass. Dean picks them up with shaky, blood-covered fingers.

Not even these feel as powerful as they did before. And what’s he supposed to do with them now? If Bobby were still alive, Dean would pass it over to Bobby and wipe his hands of it and follow through on his half-assed promise to Sam that he’d do better this time ‘round. But Bobby isn’t alive. Neither is Cas. Or Sam. And hell, they never knew the real Adam, not really, but his death still stings, too.

It’ll break that promise, but maybe Dean’ll just drive to South Dakota and hole up in Bobby’s house and take over. It is a family business, after all. He’ll load Bobby’s body up and give him a proper hunter’s burial. Dean’s half-tempted to do the same for Sam, and for Cas, for tradition’s sake, even though there isn’t a body to bury.

There’s a rustle of wind behind him that sounds eerily like the flutter of angel wings every time Cas arrives, but when Dean turns, there’s no one there. Stull is quiet for another moment, staying still, until all at once the throbbing and pain in Dean’s face subsides and Bobby sits up, gasping for air.

“What the hell?” Bobby chokes out.

Dean was positive his nose was broken and his cheekbone fractured, but when he reaches up to touch it he feels no pain at all. There’s no fresh blood, either. Just the dried shit on his fingers. Bobby stares at him with wide eyes.

“Thought you were dead,” Dean says, too damn tired for anything else.

“Thought you would be, too,” Bobby tells him.

“Guess neither of us were so lucky,” Dean mutters. In another lifetime, he might try harder to figure it out. To figure out what brought back Bobby, what healed Dean. But Dean’s lived a thousand lifetimes since then, and for now he’s just. Exhausted, deep in his bones. Grieving. If he even knows the definition of the word.

Bobby drops a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Not even that reassures him the way it used to. “You gotta pick yourself back up again, son,” Bobby tells him. And ain’t that a kick in the teeth?

Dean takes Bobby’s hand and staggers to his feet.

“He’s gone,” Dean says quietly. They both look at the spot that swallowed up the only family either of them ever knew. “And we can’t bring him back this time.”

“No,” Bobby agrees. “Dean—”

“Don’t,” Dean stops him. He shakes his shoulder free of Bobby’s hand. “I don’t. I don’t need wasted breath sayin’ we knew what we were getting into. I know that. It’s just.” Dean hates the way his voice shakes almost more than he hates the whole goddamn world for taking his brother away from him. “I don’t need the wasted breath.”

So they don’t speak. They just mourn.

Dean can’t keep track of how much time passes, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because one moment they’re standing side by side in silence then the next Bobby’s pulling a flask out of his jacket pocket and pouring some onto the ground. He takes a swig before passing it off to Dean, who follows suit.

“For Sam,” Bobby says.

“For Sam.”

They don’t know how long it’ll stay up in a place like this but they dig two stakes out of the trunk of the Impala and tie them together in a makeshift cross. Dean drives one end into the ground. With shaky fingers, Dean carves a lopsided  _ S.W.  _ into the wood.

He straightens up, knees creaking in pain. Dean lets the pocket knife drop into the grass, in front of the cross. Sam always liked it better than Dean did, anyway.

“Now what?” Bobby asks.

Dean wipes his hands on his pants. His fingers are still caked in dried blood. Even that feels like eons ago. “Now we get the hell outta dodge.”

Bobby doesn’t even look surprised when Dean hands off the rings to him. He just follows Dean mutely as Dean walks towards the Impala and yanks open the door. Dean doesn’t protest when Bobby pulls him into a hug before letting Dean get in the car. “What are you gonna do next?”

“Made a promise,” Dean says. “Guess that means I gotta follow through.”

  
  
  
  


So he goes to Lisa’s. 

She’s at least not surprised to see him, when he shows up on her doorstep. She pulls him into a hug and mutters  _ thank god  _ against his neck and it’s nice, really, to know that there’s at least someone that’s relieved he’s still around.

Lisa lets him inside and sits him down in an armchair in her living room. Ben’s out of the house, baseball practice, she answers when he asks. Dean doesn’t protest as she drapes a blanket over his shoulders and presses a glass of water into his hands. He wants to ask for something stronger but he doesn’t have the words. Water’s probably better for him, anyways.

“You look sad,” she tells him, later. Dean’s not sure how much time has passed but the sky is completely dark now and there’s a bag in the entryway that wasn’t there before. Dean figures it’s Ben’s, since there’s a baseball bat sticking out of one of the pockets. He wonders how he missed that.

“Part of the job description, Lise,” Dean finally answers. He raises the glass to his lips, and isn’t surprised that the water is room temperature now. “I always look sad.”

“Sure,” Lisa says, shrugging. “But it’s different now.”

Dean tries to laugh. It comes out half-hearted at best.

“Where’s Sam?” she asks, because somehow she knows exactly what’s wrong.

“Gone,” Dean mutters. He downs the rest of his water and sets the glass down, empty, on the coffee table. He rubs at his eyes. “He’s. Yeah. He’s gone. Cas, too. Ah. You never met Cas, but. Dude was my best friend. Family, too. They’re both gone.”

Lisa takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she says, and Dean knows she means it.

Dean shrugs.

“I’m guessing whatever killed them,” Lisa says slowly, “was going to kill all of us unless you stopped it. So I am, Dean, I am sorry for your loss. But. Thank you. I think you deserve to be thanked after whatever it was you did, too.”

Worst part of it all, is that it doesn’t make Dean feel any better.

Lisa brings down pillows and blankets that she sets on the couch. It shouldn’t sting the way it does, but Dean still swallows his pride as he sets up to sleep on the couch. He shouldn’t be surprised. Shouldn’t have thought that she’d just let him into her bed without a moment’s hesitation. Lisa deserves better than that, too. She deserves someone sleeping next to her that isn’t a basket case overwhelmed with a grief he can’t quite pin down.

The couch isn’t horrible. Dean doesn’t know if it speaks more to the comfort of the cushions or the state of his own exhaustion that he falls asleep in the better part of ten minutes.

* * *

Of course, it doesn’t last long.

It ends, actually, with a glass of whiskey spilled across a coffee table.

“Fuck,” Dean says, and he almost means it.

Lisa stays calm as Dean lurches to his feet and stumbles towards the kitchen for a towel. She’s still quiet when he comes back and mops up the spill with shaky hands. She just...  _ sits _ there, in the chair she always sits in, with her fingers steepled and her expression smooth. Like she didn’t just ask the question that’s gonna force Dean to change everything.

There’s a book on the coffee table that’s soaked now from Dean knocking his glass over. Some decorative thing that probably only cost about five bucks and came from some neighbor’s yard sale, but helped to make the table look less empty. He picks it up and wipes uselessly at the sopping pages.

“Just leave it,” Lisa tells him.

Dean looks at her. “Leave the book?” he asks, in a biting tone that he regrets the second he stops talking. “Or leave you?”

Lisa just sighs.

“Sorry,” Dean mutters, dropping his gaze. He carries the book with him back into the kitchen and drops it into the trash. He rinses the towel out in the sink. Lisa’s still sitting in the same spot, unmoving, as he comes back into the living room.

“I’m just trying to figure out what we’re doing here, Dean,” Lisa says. Her eyes track him as he sits back down, in his same spot, and picks up the near-empty glass of whiskey once again. “You showed up on my doorstep a week ago, but you’ve spent every night on the couch. You’re normal at dinner but drink yourself to sleep every time Ben and I go to bed. You’ve had nightmares every night, but we keep pretending we can’t hear it. Are you here for me? For… for us? Because I can’t just. I can’t just do that to Ben, not without. Explaining it.”

Dean swallows the last dredges of the whiskey and is more careful this time as he sets it down. It helps, this time, that Lisa doesn’t spring the  _ when do you plan on leaving?  _ question on him. “Sammy, he, uh. He wanted me to get out of the life. Find something normal. Settle down.”

She lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. “So you thought, hey, I’ll just go find myself a build-a-family and hope they take me in? It doesn’t work like that, Dean.”

“I know that,” Dean starts, voice rising.

“Do you?” Lisa interrupts. She sits forward, eyes shining. “Then why did you come here?”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. “I told you—”

“Yes, Dean, you told me,” she stops him. Her voice is even, and when he reopens his eyes, she’s leaning back in her seat again. “When you showed up on my doorstep a few weeks ago, you told me that when you see yourself happy, you see a life with me. Did you mean that?”

His pause lasts for just a moment too long. Dean watches, horrified, as Lisa’s heartbreak writes itself across her features for half a second before she smooths it back into the calm look she’s given him ever since he arrived.

“I,” she says, before she stops herself. Dean can’t do anything but watch silently as she shakes her head and stands slowly. “It’s late. We can talk about it in the morning, I shouldn’t have started this now.”

Dean stands, too. His voice shakes with anger that doesn’t belong to him as he spits out, “If you’re gonna kick me out, just kick me out!”

And Lisa’s got more fire in her than anyone else Dean has ever met, he’s known that since the day he met her, but it still startles him when she whirls back around and jabs a finger into his chest. Her voice doesn’t even shake as she tells him, “The only reason I’m not throwing you out on your ass for that comment alone is because I know you’re grieving and you’re drunk, and because your brother only died a few days ago, and I’m a better person than that. But don’t you _ever_ speak to me like that again, Dean. I live in this house. I raise my _son_ in this house. And if I’ve learned anything in the ten years that have passed since the last time you broke my heart, it’s that I’m not as easy to walk over as I used to be. So sit down. I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about what’s going to happen if you choose to stay. Do you understand?”

She’s so damn beautiful. God, Dean wishes he could love her the way she deserves. Wishes he weren’t a broken, grieving man holding the pieces of a love he doesn’t know how to share in his hands, because maybe if he were a little bit better then this part would be a little bit easier and he’d actually have a fucking chance here. A shot in hell to share a life with someone.

“Yeah,” he says, instead of anything else. He could say a lot more, but it’s not Lisa’s burden to carry on her shoulders after she leaves. “I understand.”

Lisa puts her hand against his cheek sadly. It breaks Dean’s heart that she thinks she’ll see him in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” Dean tells her. “I wish I hadn’t done this to you.”

“I know,” she murmurs. She presses up on her toes and kisses the side of his mouth. “But you’re doing the best you can, I think.”

Dean waits until he hears her bedroom door softly close before he leaves.

So it ended with a glass of whiskey spilled across a coffee table and it’s left with a rinsed glass in the sink, a toothbrush left accidentally in a bathroom, and a note in a planner that reads  _ thank you for everything, I’m sorry, I wish you both the best.  _ Dean won’t think about any of that again for a long time.

There’s no masking the sound of the Impala’s engine turning over as it starts. Dean glances at Lisa’s bedroom window, thinking he sees a twitch in the curtains, but he drives away before he can be sure.

The next few weeks suck even worse, which Dean hadn’t thought possible. He supposes before there was at least some semblance of normalcy in the fact that it was just one place that he was crashing and the same faces greeting him every morning. He feels like shit knowing it took him just one week to fuck the whole thing up, especially after promising Sammy he’d do better this time around. It all just fucking sucks.

The motel mattresses suck. The diner food sucks. Filling up the Impala every other day because he never stops fucking driving sucks.

Dean gets the idea after about fifteen days of driving around aimlessly and dodging Bobby’s phone calls about possible hunts. It’s a little embarrassing, he thinks, that it took him this long to figure out that settling down didn’t have to mean settling down with Lisa.

He’s somewhere in Colorado, which seems as good a place as any, so he drives until he passes a sign that says  _ Welcome to Bennett,  _ then he keeps driving through the town until he finds an auto repair shop with a hand-painted sign and a collection of old cars parked outside. The faded sign names the place Woody’s Tow and Repair. The tires of the Impala kick up loose gravel as they drive up to the side of the building.

There’s an older man outside that reminds Dean almost too much of Bobby, who grunts when Dean parks and climbs out of the car. He’s got a beer can in his hand and leans against a chipped-paint wall.

“Don’t tell me that car’s giving you trouble,” the guy says. The name patch on his coveralls reads  _ Pete. _

Dean pats her hood as he walks around the car. “Baby? Nah, she runs like a dream. Spend too much time making sure she’s in perfect condition for her to ever give me trouble.”

The guy lets out a huff of laughter. “Then what brings you all the way out to this sorry lot?”

“Wondering if you could use a spare hand around here,” Dean tells him, hands shoved deep in his jean pockets, and that’s where the next chapter of his life begins.

The shop is owned, Dean finds out, by the man’s wife. Dean doesn’t meet Theresa until he’s already worked seven days straight. Theresa is only a few inches shorter than him and has a handshake that intimidates the hell out of Dean, but they spend their first day together shooting the shit and comparing knowledge on classic cars. By the end of Dean’s first week in Bennett, Colorado, he’s earned a nice paycheck and a seal of approval from the town’s toughest resident.

Dean sets himself up at a motel about a mile from the shop, some place where the owner was willing to negotiate his rate so long as Dean promised to stay put for at least a month. Dean goes into the shop every day, for lack of anything better to do, and Theresa and Pete never complain about it. It makes his paychecks fat and keeps his days busy. When he gets back to the motel, he unplugs his laptop from wherever he’d left it the night before and sets up somewhere with it, looking up houses for sale and drinking himself to sleep most nights. Not the healthiest way to live, he’s sure, but at least he’s fucking living.

He finds a place that’s damn-near perfect, about a month into living in Bennett. It’s dirt-cheap and in a decent area, all things considered. Secluded enough that Dean thinks he’ll be comfortable. It’s ugly as sin in the pictures and will require a lot of TLC, but it’s the bones of a house and that’s all he cares about. Dean goes to the bank to buy the land and ignores the lead-heavy weight in his stomach as he signs the date and realizes two full months have come and gone since Stull.

The realtor takes him out to the lot, telling him to tail her as they both drive out. “Congratulations,” she says, when she smacks a  _ Sold!  _ sticker over the for-sale sign in the dirt. “You’re now the happy owner of this hunk of junk.”

“Thanks,” Dean says. There’s a swell of something that almost feels like pride in his chest.

She hands him the keys with a sigh. “Nice of you to take this off my hands,” she muses. “This place has been up for sale for nearly a decade now.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Why? Place haunted or something?”

“Nothing like that,” she tells him. “The house is just old as shit. Gonna cost a hell of a lot to renovate.”

“Renovations, I can handle,” Dean says. He jams his hands into his pockets and fights back a grin. “Hell, let’s be real. I could handle a ghost or two in there, too.”

“Whatever you say,” she mutters, clearly bored, and Dean follows her back to her car to sign the last of the paperwork before she climbs back into her car and takes off.

Dean spends the first night in his house sleeping on dusty hardwood floors, and it’s the best night’s sleep he’s gotten in years.

* * *

Theresa and Pete give him a bunch of old furniture they had just lying around as part of his housewarming, so Dean takes three days off of work to haul shit into the house and clean out all the dirt and cobwebs. He’s got everything in and arranged the way he’ll have it until the house is done by the end of the first day, so he spends most of the second day drawing out a floor plan for what the house looks like now and jotting down ideas for what he wants to change.

He’s become somewhat of a regular at some diner that sits across the street from Woody’s, so it doesn’t surprise him when the high-school aged waitress named Mythri climbs into the other side of his booth and starts nosing in his business. She’s got an eye for design, he learns, and together they fix the few inconsistencies he hadn’t noticed in his own plans. She comps his meal with an employee discount and shrugs when he brings it up, so Dean leaves an extra nice tip for all her help.

On the third day, he takes a sledgehammer to the wall that separates the living room and the kitchen, hoping to open up the floor plan by taking it down. He only gets in about three good swings before he’s stopped by the echoing sounds of his phone ringing.

Dean groans as he lowers the hammer to the ground. He takes the goggles off his eyes, leaving them dangling around his neck, and digs his phone out of where it fell between the couch cushions.

Bobby.

“Hello?” Dean answers, because he can only really avoid Bobby for so long, and two months is long enough. He wonders, briefly, if Bobby will be proud to know what Dean’s doing out here in Colorado. “Bobby?”

“Bout friggin’ time you pick up the damn phone,” Bobby barks out, and Dean sighs. “Retirement mean turning your back on everyone you know, too, or is that just a bonus?”

“I’ve been busy,” Dean says defensively.

Bobby huffs. “And the rest of us ain’t? Monsters didn’t quit just because you stopped hunting them, Dean.”

“Bobby, I told you,” Dean starts.

“Shut up and listen,” Bobby says, before Dean can even get another word out. “You think I’m blowing up your phone every day about some damn hunt? You got out, I’m leavin’ you out, son. All that’s fine and well. I ain’t calling about some monster, I’m calling about Castiel.”

Dean freezes in place. “He’s alive?”

“More’n that, Dean. He’s  _ human. _ ”

On instinct, every atom in Dean’s body is on high alert. He rips the goggles off and tosses them to the ground and starts moving, fingers already reaching for the keys he hangs up on a loose nail next to the door. “Where is he?”

“Pontiac,” Bobby says. Dean hesitates as he pulls the door shut behind him. He shakes himself before locking the door and hurrying down the creaky porch steps to where his car is parked in the driveway. “Yeah, that pause you just did, I did the same thing too. Guess whoever brought him back dropped him in front of that same barn. He’s been there ever since.”

“Two months?” Dean demands. He yanks open the door to the Impala and drops into the seat heavily, jamming the key into the ignition. “He’s been in Pontiac for two months, human? What the hell has he been doing?”

“Hunting, from the looks of it,” Bobby answers. “He didn’t give me many answers over the phone, but he asked for some documents. I told him I’d make ‘em, that he could pop by and get them whenever he was ready and that’s when he told me he didn’t have his wings anymore.”

Dean swears under his breath. “Why the hell did he wait two months to get a hold of you?”

“Beats me. Says he tried contacting you once, but nothing ever came of that.”

“What?” Dean barks out. “When? How? Did he have my new number? Dumb son of a bitch probably called an old phone.  _ Damn  _ it. I’m on my way to you, I’ll get the documents for him then go pick him up. Damn it.”

Bobby sighs. “Bit out of your way to drive from Indiana to South Dakota back to Illinois, ain’t it?”

“What?” Dean asks. He realizes a second too late that Bobby probably still thinks he’s with Lisa. God, Dean’s been a shitty kid. He owes Bobby a lot of long stories. “It ain’t that far out of my way. I’m in Colorado. I’ll see you in nine hours.”

“Why the hell are you in Colorado?” Bobby asks, before Dean can hang up. “Thought you weren’t—”

“I’m not hunting,” Dean interrupts. “I, uh. Live here now. Bought a house. Have a job. All that.”

The other line is quiet while Bobby processes that. Dean hates the anxiety that curls in the pit of his stomach. “Good on you, kid,” Bobby says finally, and there’s pride in his voice that doesn’t sound fake or forced. Dean lets out a sharp breath of air he hadn’t realized he was holding. “That’s great, Dean. Good. I just thought…”

Dean knows what Bobby thought. It’s what Dean thought, too. But that hadn’t been what he’d wanted. Not really. “Lisa deserves better than the life I brought to her,” Dean says finally, and it’s at least part of the truth. “So I left. And I drove. And I wound up in Colorado.”

“Well,” Bobby says. The line cuts out as Dean puts his car in reverse and pulls onto the main road away from his house. “Good on you. You’ll have to give me the address.”

“Yeah, we can have a proper housewarming,” Dean huffs out, and Bobby calls him an idiot before hanging up on him.

It’s nine hours to South Dakota, then another eight from there to Pontiac. It would take Dean a straight thirteen hours or so without the detour in Sioux Falls, but this is Cas they’re talking about, and Dean’s gonna be there with everything he needs if that’s what it takes. He makes one last phone call before tossing the thing aimlessly into the passenger seat, asking Theresa for another few days off while he heads out of town.

“Family emergency,” he tells her.

Her voice is gruff as she says, “Didn’t know you had family, Dean-o.”

And he doesn’t know how to explain it other than, “I didn’t. Now I do,” but Theresa must recognize something in his tone or know when to leave well enough alone because she just tells him to let her know when he’s back in town and yells at him that he better bring his family around once they’re all back before hanging up on him.

It ain’t much, but it feels good. Feels like someone caring for him. Dean can’t help but smile even as he puts his foot down on the pedal heavier and peels out of Colorado like he’s got the devil on his tails.

* * *

Dean pulls up to some nondescript motel about two miles out of Pontiac, and before he can even put his car in park, Castiel comes barreling out of the lobby like he’s got something to prove. Dean barely has time to reach over and move the packet of documents from the passenger seat before Cas is yanking the passenger door open and sliding inside.

Without even looking at Dean, he holds out one expectant hand and uses the other to dig a cell phone out of his pocket.

Dean just stares at him blankly.

“Is there something wrong with the documents, Dean?” Cas asks, tired.

Affronted, Dean hands the packet to Cas and puts the car in park before turning in his seat and giving Cas another incredulous look. It takes a minute for Cas to finally sigh and turn to look at Dean.

“What?” Cas says.

Dean stares at him harder. Out of all the things he’d expected in a reunion, this was the last of it. “Hey, Cas, good to see you too, man. Last time we saw each other you got turned into a flesh smoothie. Wanna talk about what the hell happened there?”

Unimpressed, Cas answers, “I died.”

“You know, I kind of pieced that much together on my own, but thanks.”

Cas is looking at him like he can’t understand what Dean’s trying to get at here. He scowls. “Now I am alive. You’re also alive. And you are going to take me to a church.”

“I’m  _ what? _ ” Dean splutters.

“We don’t have much time,” Cas snaps out, and it activates the same fight-or-flight response that all hunts to in Dean, so Dean throws the car in reverse and speeds out of the motel parking lot without hesitating again.

Cas is quiet, save for the few, sharp directions he barks out every so often. He doesn’t look up from the documents in his hands. Dean stews in his own angry juices until he can’t stand the silence another second longer.

“So, you wanna fill me in on what we’re hunting here?” Dean asks gruffly. Cas points to the right without looking up, and Dean rolls his eyes as he flips the turn signal and turns onto the road. “Cas, you’re killin’ me, man. You gotta give me something here.”

“It’s not a hunt,” Cas says, which really isn’t an answer at all. Dean scoffs. “Stop here.”

They screech to a halt in front of some shady-ass building with a cross on the door. Cas is out the door the second the car is in park, barking out, “Stay in the car,” so sharply that Dean’s stunned into staying put. He watches, slack-jawed, as Cas runs up the stairs and slips inside the building, paperwork still clutched in his hands.

For the first time since Dean saw him again, he realizes Cas wasn’t even in his usual get-up of suit, tie, and trench-coat. He doesn’t like the way that knowledge sits in his gut.

Two months. Dean’s been on his own for two damn months. Cas has been alone during all of that, too. Not just alone, but doing it all as he adjusts to being human. Dean thrums his fingers against his steering wheel and tries to make sense of it all. Someone brought Bobby back. Someone healed Dean. Someone brought Cas back, but had enough of a beef with him that they yanked his grace out of him and just dropped his mortal ass back in the same town as his human vessel. For the first time since Stull, Dean really starts to feel the old twitch in the back of his hands, that same itch he gets every time they start hunting something they don’t understand.

Cas stays in the building for a long time. Dean’s nerves are fried, and he’s not sure whether it’s got more to do with the fact that he’s been out of practice for two months and worried he’s not prepared or if it’s the fact that he thought Cas was dead up until sixteen hours ago. He hadn’t even gotten the reunion he’d expected. No holy water in his face, no silver in his arms. Nothing against Cas, too. Just the trust that they were who they said they were. And Cas’s haste to get away from the motel and into this creepy-looking church. Dean had expected a bit of a fight. Maybe a hug. He’d definitely hoped he could at least crash on a couch for four hours before hitting the road again.

Then again, this is Cas he’s talking about. Dean supposes he could have expected this.

It’s about thirty minutes of internal debate on whether or not Dean wants to haul his sorry ass inside to see what the hell is taking Cas so long when the door finally opens and Cas comes hurrying back out. The documents are tucked under one arm but his other is around some blond kid that he speaks to quietly as they both hurry their way down the steps and towards the Impala. Dean barely even registers the kid as out of place before he gets an actual look.

Wait.

Cas doesn’t look at him as they both climb into the backseat. His voice is uncharacteristically soft as he says, “Drive, Dean. Please.”

“Alright,” Dean says. He catches the kid’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Heya, Claire.”

Claire Novak looks away.

* * *

Cas has already booked them two joined rooms back at the motel, and Claire walks into the second one and closes the door behind her the moment they get out of the car. To his credit, Cas doesn’t even look put out by it. He just holds the manilla folder of fake documents close to his chest and goes into the unoccupied room, leaving Dean to follow him.

Dean locks the Impala and jogs to catch up with Cas. In the room, there’s a suitcase on one of the double beds that sits half-opened. Cas goes to it and drops the folder on top.

“So,” Dean drawls.

Cas glances at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Can we talk about it now?” Dean asks. 

Quietly, Cas goes to the door that connects the two rooms and knocks. He waits for half a minute for no response, then pulls it open and peeks his head inside. Dean catches a glimpse of Claire curled up under the covers on a bed in there, asleep.

“She’ll need some time to adjust,” Cas mutters, mostly to himself. He closes the door again but leaves it unlocked. Dean waits until Cas sits down heavy on the edge of the bed. It’s only then that he finally looks at Dean like he’s only just seeing him, and offers him a small smile. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, man,” Dean says, and all the fight goes out of him. He sits down on the bed across from Cas.

Cas lets out a slow, controlled breath. “I know you have a lot of questions,” he starts, and Dean snorts, because, well,  _ understatement.  _ “And to be quite honest, I’m not sure I will even be able to answer all of them.”

“We can start somewhere, at least,” Dean says. He ain’t letting Cas off the hook that easy. “Hell, I won’t even make you start at the beginning. How about you start with the girl?”

“Claire?”

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes, knowing it won’t get them anywhere. “You see any other girls ‘round here? Dumbass. Obviously Claire. Where’s her mom?”

He’s expecting it, honestly, so he’s not sure why it sucks so bad when Cas says, “Dead.”

“Shit,” Dean breathes out.

Cas scrubs at the scruff on his chin, looking lost in thought. It’s a strange, human motion that Dean’s never seen the guy do before, so it takes him a second to understand what he’s watching. He doesn’t like how off-put it makes him feel. “I believe it was recent. Amelia dropped Claire off at her grandmother’s then left in search of Jimmy. She wrote Claire letters, but it stopped about two months ago. I looked into it. I found a coroner’s report for a Jane Doe that matched Amelia’s description, then took a bus out to identify the body. They let me, since I look like her husband.”

“Cas, that’s…” Dean starts. He exhales sharply. “I mean, I know we see some messed up crap, but. That’s fucking insane, man.”

“That is one way to put it,” Cas says, smiling wryly. “It’s been a very tumultuous few weeks.”

Dean pauses. “Wait, weeks? You weren’t doing this the whole time?”

There’s a frown on Cas’s face that makes Dean’s stomach feel heavy as lead. “No,” he says shortly.

“Buddy, this is the part where you elaborate.”

Cas levels him with the same look he’s always given Dean any time he thinks Dean’s being a particularly obnoxious human. That, at least, is familiar. “It is not an easy story to tell, Dean,” Cas bites out. “You’ll have to forgive me if it takes me a moment to want to divulge it to you.”

Dean scrubs his face with his hands and stands up. He’s exhausted from driving, sore from sitting, and he’s friggin’ starving. The last thing he’d expected when he’d showed up for Cas was getting stuck with babysitting duty. And he’s friggin’  _ starving.  _ He hasn’t felt hunger like this since Sam died.

“Alright, I can only take so much of this on an empty stomach,” Dean mutters. He picks his keys up off the table. “There’s gotta be a burger joint nearby, right? I’ll go grab us some grub. Will the kid want anything?”

“You think I would know?” Cas asks.

“You’d know better than me,” Dean points out.

Cas rolls his eyes. “She’s fourteen. Teenager mood swings and cravings are unpredictable at best, worse in uncertain times. Claire may be my vessel’s biological offspring, but she is as unfamiliar to me as anyone else you’ve met on the road.”

“For god’s sake,” Dean mutters. He grabs his wallet and shoves it in his pocket, turning on his heel. “Jesus Christ. Okay, alright. Stay here. Keep an eye on the kid, I ain’t dealing with a runaway. I’ll be back in like half an hour.”

“Drive safe,” Cas says, distracted again, and Dean spends a moment too long staring at him before he shakes himself and slips out the door.

Once he’s in the car, Dean grips the steering wheel and takes gasping, desperate breaths that make his shoulders shake. He doesn’t even know what’s  _ wrong.  _ Everything just feels fucked up. Sam’s gone. Up til twenty hours ago, he’d thought Cas was still dead, too. Dean pulled his own sorry ass out of the game just to find out Cas has been wandering around graceless and probably broke, and to top it all off there’s a kid in the room next to him that Cas may or may not be legally responsible for now.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, when his breath finally evens out, and he puts the car in drive and speeds away from the motel.

He finds some local diner that does carry-out, and the green-haired teenager working the register recommends something that he orders for Claire in addition to the burgers and fries he orders for himself and Cas. It should probably alarm him that he still remembers what kind of burger Cas preferred from ages ago, but mostly it just makes him feel tired. Dean hopes Cas still has that appetite. He orders three shakes for the hell of it, too, figuring that kids like ice cream and this might get him on Claire’s good side.

The whole thing only takes him twenty minutes, in all, so he’s back at the motel a lot quicker than he’d expected. Dean’s not sure if Cas was waiting for him or not, sitting at the window until he heard the sound of the Impala rolling up, but Cas is outside when Dean climbs out of the car, and helps him take all the food inside.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says gratefully, looking pleased and awed at the bags of food he holds in his hands. Dean ducks his head before he does something stupid like smile at the guy.

Claire’s still asleep, so Cas suggests they let her rest a little bit longer and leave her alone. They stick her milkshake in the freezer and her food in the microwave and they leave the connecting door open so they can hear it if she gets up, then take their seats at the wobbly table next to the window. Cas dives into his burger like he hasn’t eaten in two months.

The realization that it’s entirely possible Cas  _ hasn’t  _ eaten in two months nearly knocks Dean on his ass. He should have ordered more food. Carefully, he asks, “This isn’t your first meal since you got back, right?”

Cas grunts, mouth full with his burger, and shakes his head. The relief Dean feels is instant. “No. I stayed in a shelter for the first month, and the volunteers were very kind in providing us sustenance.”

“You were in a shelter?” Dean demands.

“They had a bed,” Cas says with a shrug. “I was lucky. I kept offering to give it up so someone more in need could have a spot, but they were very kind to me. Provided me with food and clothes. A friend of Claire’s grandmother recognized me. Or, well. I suppose she recognized Jimmy. But she asked if I was James Novak, and mentioned Claire, and I… said I was.”

Dean puts down his burger, untouched. “Cas.”

Cas grimances. He pauses, shovelling a few fries into his mouth, and chews thoughtfully. “Jimmy is gone,” Cas says finally. “I’ve known that ever since I woke up here. It’s just me in here now. And I thought… I didn’t do much right, as an angel. Towards the end, at least. Perhaps I could do something better now.”

“So the documents I brought you,” Dean starts.

“Forged documents about time spent in a psychiatric hospital,” Cas finishes with a wry grin. “Birth certificates, for myself and for Claire. Other documentation about where ‘Jimmy’ has been for two years, so that I could take Claire with me.”

Dean blinks, taken aback. It shouldn’t surprise him, honestly, all things considered, but it does anyway. Cas continues to eat, either unaware or uncaring of Dean’s meltdown as he processes. Finally, Dean says, “Take her with you. So, you…”

“Have full custody of Claire now, yes,” Cas says. He takes a napkin and wipes ketchup from the side of his mouth. He’s either oblivious or uncaring to the way Dean tracks the movement, still startled by the normalcy of it all. “I’m not sure I can say by all legal terms, as the way I went about this was decidedly not legal, but. Claire is my daughter now.”

“Fuck,” Dean says, and he ends the conversation for a moment by picking his burger back up and diving in.

They eat in silence. Dean processes. His head feels like it’s spinning at a million miles an hour. Cas is alive, for one. He’s human now. And he’s a friggin’  _ father.  _ This guy stabbed an angel blade up through a superior’s jaw. This guy got drunk after draining an entire liquor store. And now he’s responsible for the kid of the vessel who’s body he took over before booting the poor fucker out for good.

Cas finishes his burger before Dean’s even halfway through, and he looks grateful when Dean pushes his fries over. He even drinks the shake. Dean wonders, a bit too late, if the ice cream had been a better idea for Claire or for Cas.

“You have mustard on your chin,” Cas points out, and Dean realizes he’s been staring again, so he drops his gaze and turns red and wipes halfheartedly at his chin.

“So, what are you gonna do now?” Dean asks.

Cas hums, sitting back in his chair. He glances at the open door, and from his spot, Dean thinks he is able to see Claire. Dean wonders if that makes Cas feel better, the way that looking over Sam when he slept when they were kids helped Dean. “I suppose I’ll find a place of living for Claire and I,” he starts. “Bobby created documentation that will make me seem like a responsible homeowner or renter. I’ll have to get a job, to provide for her and myself. And I will need to earn Claire’s trust.”

“Why didn’t she stay with Amelia’s mom?” Dean prods, curiosity getting the best of him.

“Millicent is ill,” Cas sighs. “She will need to move to a long term care facility soon. Claire would end up in foster homes, and I wanted to prevent that if I could. Claire may not know me, but my face is at least familiar to her.”

Dean wipes his mouth with his napkin again and sits back, burger finished. There’s surprise in his voice as he says, “You really care about this.”

Cas meets his eyes. “I care about doing something right,” Cas says carefully. “I thought that was all it was. But… there is some part of Jimmy in me, I suppose, that makes me care for the girl more than I thought I would. I can take care of her. Maybe one day that will mean something to her.”

“You’re a good guy, Cas,” Dean blurts out. Cas’s eyes widen in surprise. “Seriously. Not many dudes would do what you are in this situation. Lotta guys find out about a kid and run screaming in the other direction. But you’re trying. That means something.”

“You didn’t run,” Cas points out, and Dean frowns at him, confused. “When you thought Ben Braeden was your child. You offered much to Ben and his mother. Truth be told, I expected you to be with them after all of this came to pass.”

It stings. Dean knows Cas doesn’t mean it to sting, but it does all the same. Dean looks out the window and tries to keep his breathing steady. “I visited,” Dean says, and he forces himself to shrug. “But they aren’t a part of this life, and they deserve better than putting up with my crap.”

Cas frowns.

“Anyway,” Dean mutters, and he pushes away from the table and stands up hastily, cleaning up the garbage. “It’s been fine.”

He can tell that Cas wants to push it, in some obnoxious way that he’s always been able to tell with Cas, but the poor guy must decide it’s not worth the emotional gymnastics he’d have to go through to get Dean to talk, because he just offers Dean a small smile and says, “You’ll have to tell me what you’ve been up to for the last two months.”

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Later.”

Cas hums. Dean can feel Cas’s eyes on him as he crosses the room and throws their garbage away. When he turns around, Cas doesn’t even pretend like he wasn’t staring. Dean sighs. At least he hasn’t changed.

“Perhaps you could help me look for a place to stay,” Cas suggests, as Dean crosses the room again and picks his duffel bag off the ground. “I doubt Claire will want to stay in this motel for all that long.”

“Look for a place?” Dean repeats, pausing as he pulls clean clothes out of his bag.

“An apartment,” Cas says carefully. He looks around the room. “Or… a house, I suppose, if I can get a loan. Some place for Claire and I to reside.”

Dumbly, Dean says, “I have a house.”

Cas’s gaze snaps back to Dean’s face. “What?”

“A house,” Dean repeats. His face is on fire. “I own one. It, uh. It has three bedrooms. It ain’t all that big so the rooms are small as shit, and I’m in the middle of remodeling it because it’s kind of a shithole, but. It’s nice. Colorado is nice. I see teenagers sometimes. And there’s this diner, they have great breakfast food. I… I have a house.”

“You see teenagers sometimes?” Cas echoes, confused.

A hole could open up in the floor and swallow Dean whole and it still wouldn’t get him out of this conversation fast enough. He’s not sure what the hell he’s doing. Or, hell, maybe he is. He’d been planning on bringing Cas back with him, hadn’t he? What’s one more person to the tally? A kid, sure, but it’s not like Cas can just leave her here now. And it’s not like Dean can leave Cas. And he has a house, an empty house, and he promised Sam he’d get out and settle down, and this probably isn’t exactly what Sam had in mind but it’s family, right? Cas is family. That makes Claire family, too.

“Kids Claire’s age,” Dean says lamely. He shuffles his weight back and forth, for lack of anything else to do with his body. “She could make friends.”

Finally, it seems, Cas realizes what Dean’s implying. Cas’s eyes widen again, and he sits forward in his seat. “You have a house,” he repeats slowly, and this is fucking  _ killing Dean.  _

“I do,” Dean confirms, exasperated.

“And you would let Claire and I move in,” Cas says. The end of his phrase lilts up just slightly, making it less of a statement and almost a question.

Dean makes sure Cas is looking at him, like actually looking at him and not just staring through him, before he states, “Yeah, I would. If you wanted.”

The seconds that pass between Dean putting the offer out there and Cas’s response feel like the longest amount of time Dean’s ever endured, but after several heart-pounding moments, Cas finally smiles at Dean like Dean’s just offered him the solution for world peace.

“Alright,” Cas says, and with that one simple word Dean’s house becomes a little less empty. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u sabi and cait for holding my hand and letting me talk about this like an idiot for hours on end bc i have brain rot abt this story now and also have cant shut up disease xoxo

Claire looks at them like they’ve both grown multiple heads, when they tell her. Part of it could be the fact that she just woke up from a nap, but Dean’s pretty sure most of it is just the fact that she’s a teenager who’s entire life is being uprooted because some supernatural beings came into her world and fucked it up.

It’s a tense thirty seconds as they wait for Claire’s response, and Dean’s pretty sure he feels more anxiety radiating off of Cas than he’s felt in an entire year. Eventually, Claire scowls and ducks her head and takes a bite out of her sandwich, muttering, “Whatever.”

It feels like a hell of a victory to Dean.

Cas seems put out by her lack of enthusiasm, but the guy was never a teenager himself and doesn’t understand that sometimes this is as good as it gets. Dean claps a hand on Cas’s shoulder and gives him a grin from ear to ear and hopes, at least, that it gives him some comfort.

They decide to get some sleep before hitting the road again, Dean unwilling to drive a long stretch without getting at least a little shut-eye and Claire still exhausted from getting moved from place to place. She goes back into the second room and leaves the connecting door open, and they can hear it when she turns on the tv as loud as it can go.

“Kids,” Dean mutters, grinning, and Cas looks at him with panic in his eyes that tells Dean he’s got no idea what they’ve just gotten themselves into.

Cas sits down next to Dean on the mattress, and he lets out a pleased hum when Dean turns on their own tv and switches it onto some old Western movie. Dean can practically feel the weight on Cas’s shoulders just from sharing his space. Cas murmurs, “I’m afraid I’ve made a miscalculation.”

Dean snorts. “Little late for that revelation, man.”

“I know,” Cas sighs. He reaches up and rubs tiredly at his eyes and Dean watches the movement, strangely transfixed by it. Dean supposes it will take a while to get used to Cas being human. “I still think it was the right choice, but I feel as though I could have prepared myself better.”

“Pretty sure every new dad says that,” Dean tells him, shrugging. He bumps his shoulder against Cas’s. “She’s just a kid. She’ll need some time. So will you.”

Wringing his hands together in his lap, Cas asks, “Do you regret it, now that we’ve told her? Taking in a stranger and a child that is not your own?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re not a stranger, Cas, c’mon,” he mutters. He looks up and catches Cas’s gaze. “Ain’t we talked about this before? You’re the best friend I got. You’re family.”

“I’ve caused you pain,” Cas insists.

“Everybody causes pain,” Dean interrupts, and Cas’s mouth snaps shut. “Lesson number one of being a human. People fuck up. We hurt each other. Sometimes we mean to. Most of the time we don’t. But shit happens, you know? So you live and you learn, you move on. You hope it doesn’t happen again.”

Cas gives Dean a wry grin. “You’re suggesting having faith in people.”

With a huff of laughter, Dean claps Cas on the shoulder and stands. “Sure, man,” Dean agrees. “If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

Cas doesn’t say anything else as Dean picks up the shit he pulled out of his bag earlier, so Dean grabs the rest of what he needs and heads to the bathroom to take a shower. The water pressure isn’t half bad, all things considered. Dean washes off the hours of driving and the grease from the burger and the weight off his shoulders until he feels cleaner and more tired than he’s felt all day. It only takes him a few minutes after the shower to throw on some clothes that are probably clean then brush his teeth, but by the time he’s ready, he glances into Claire’s room and sees she’s already fallen asleep again. She’s curled up on top of her covers, tv and light still on.

Dean glances at Cas, who looks back at him for just a moment, before making a decision and huffing under his breath as he walks quietly into Claire’s room. He takes the blanket off the other bed and covers her with it, then flips off her light and turns off the tv. As he leaves, closing the door a little bit more behind him, Dean swears he hears a whispered  _ thank you,  _ but when he glances back at Claire, she looks exactly the same.

He leaves the door open just a crack, and Cas gives him a grateful look for it. “I hadn’t noticed she’d fallen asleep,” Cas admits, frowning. His voice is quieter than normal.

“She probably just barely passed out,” Dean say dismissively. He yawns as he climbs under the covers of his own bed, flipping off his light. It’s kind of early, all things considered, but Dean considers the fact that he basically drove for a day straight, and decides it’s justified.

Cas gets into his own bed, flipping off the lamp but leaving the tv on. Dean dozes off listening to the sound of Cas breathing.

“Is it strange that I still want to have faith?” Cas asks, quiet enough that Dean knows he wouldn’t have heard it had he been any more asleep. Dean rolls over and peeks out of one eye, catching Cas’s gaze.

“In God?” Dean asks.

Cas frowns. “I suppose. Or in angels. Perhaps just in something greater than me. I… it feels silly. Knowing I looked for God and was unsuccessful. Knowing now that He didn’t even want to be found. But. I was a soldier. And I was very good at following the lead of someone else.”

For a moment, Dean lets that sink in, and they sit in silence. Breathing together. He mulls over what to say before settling on, “Well, I ain’t God, and I’m certainly no angel, but. You can follow my lead, to start. There’s probably a thing or two I can teach you about being human.”

“I’m sure there is,” Cas murmurs, smiling softly at him. “You may not be an angel, Dean Winchester, but you are certainly a good man.”

“Aw,” Dean mutters, deadpan. “You sure know how to make a gal blush.”

Cas rolls his eyes. Dean grins, pleased by it.

They fall asleep like that—facing one another, separated by the small distance between two separate beds. Dean thinks, deliriously, before he slips under, that it’s a good thing. It can be his turn to watch over Cas.

* * *

Claire doesn’t complain about getting woken up early to hit the road, though Dean thinks it has more to do with the fact that Cas promised her they’d stop at McDonald’s on the way. The bastard doesn’t even have the nerve to look guilty when Dean shoots him an exasperated look.

It’s an otherwise unnoteworthy drive. They stop for lunch and for a few bathroom breaks and, in one instance, when Cas gets carsick. Cas looks so put out by the whole thing that Dean can’t help but laugh, even after Cas frowns and tells Dean never to speak of it again. It’s nice, Dean thinks. Human Cas. Even Claire hides a grin behind her hand in the backseat. Dean nudges Cas’s thigh and glances back subtly, making sure Cas sees it for himself. Those two smiles make the drive seem easier to Dean.

It’s just after six when they make it to Colorado, which feels like good time to Dean. They pass Woody’s, and Cas perks up when Dean mentions he works there. Claire, on the other hand, perks up as they drive passed the diner.

“Can we eat there?” she asks, and Dean’s so damn pleased the kid actually asked for something that he tells her yes without even thinking about it.

Dean still takes them home first, to give them some time to settle before going to get dinner. To put their shit down and maybe take a piss and change into clothes that are actually clean. Neither Cas nor Claire complain when he suggests this. Still, Dean’s strangely self-conscious as he pulls into the driveway of the house. Renovations have been entirely on the inside, so the outside is still covered in peeling yellow paint and a rickety deck. There’s weeds all over the yard that he hasn’t gotten around to pulling and dead fireworks in the gutter that the kids across the street lit off on the Fourth of July.

Claire’s face is blank as she takes it in. “This is it?” she asks.

“Home sweet home,” Dean agrees. “It ain’t much from the outside yet, but it will be. I’m fixin’ it up. Brand new coat of paint, a new deck, and some TLC on the yard, it’ll be good as new. But it’s a bit of a mess on the inside, too. I didn’t know I’d be bringing home roommates, or else I would have cleaned up better.”

“I’m used to it,” Claire says dismissively.

“It’s a nice house,” Cas comments, peering out the passenger window.

Dean snorts, killing the engine and pulling his keys from the ignition. “You can say it’s a shithole. I got it cheap as dirt for a reason. But it’ll be a nice house when I’m done with it. You’ll have to see my plans. Doing stuff on the inside right now, because there’s air conditioning in there. I don’t wanna touch anything on the outside until the temperature drops.”

Cas hums noncommittally. “That all may be true, but my point stands as well. It’s still a nice house. And it will suit you well.”

Dean doesn’t really have anything to say to that, so he huffs out a forced laugh and throws open the car door. Cas and Claire follow Dean’s lead as he climbs out of the Impala, trailing behind him as he leads them into the house. They’re still quiet as he opens the front door and gestures inside.

The living room is a mess where he left it half-demolished. Claire gapes at the hole in the wall, and Dean flushes as he explains, “That wall is coming down. Gonna open up the rooms a little bit, connect it with the kitchen. Didn’t get very far before I got the phone call.”

“The phone call? Cas echoes.

Dean glances at him. “That you were alive.”

“Oh,” Cas says, surprised. Dean looks away, embarrassed for reasons he doesn’t understand. When he walks further into the house, Cas and Claire keep following him.

“There really ain’t much,” Dean continues. “Living room there, kitchen here. I think I’m gonna put a pantry right here. First door down that hall leads to a mudroom that leads to a garage, but the mudroom is friggin’ huge so I’m gonna put a washer and dryer there. That door leads to the side of the house. Oh, I’m gonna put doors in the kitchen, too so there’s a way to get to the backyard that makes sense.”

Dean realizes, belatedly, that he’s been rambling, but when he catches sight of Cas and Claire, they both look curious and interested. It makes his chest swell with pride.

“The kitchen’s gonna be the best part, I think,” Dean continues, reassured by the way Cas nods to encourage him. Claire remains silent, but Dean knows she’s still listening. “I’m gonna put an island here, with stools on that side. Table will go over there, next to where I’ll put the doors. The cabinets are old and ugly as shit, so I’ll replace those. I’ll have to get all new appliances, don’t even get me started on that. And—”

“The window,” Cas interrupts, moving forward. In the corner of the kitchen, above the sink, sits a gothic-style window that overlooks the backyard. Dean hadn’t thought much of it, when he’d looked at pictures of the house and even after he bought it, but Cas moves forward now to look at them like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen.

“You like it?” Dean asks, doubtful.

Cas turns to look at him. “You don’t?”

Dean shrugs. “I was planning on replacing it with something more modern, but I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“Oh,” Cas says, disheartened. “Yes, I suppose something more modern would make sense in this space.”

“Well, sure, it might make sense, but that doesn’t mean I have to do it,” Dean says with a shake of his head. Cas’s gaze snaps back to him. “I mean, if you like it, we can keep it. I bet it’s worth something too, especially cleaned up and with some new glass.”

Cas blinks at him. “It’s your house, Dean.”

With another shrug, Dean pushes forward, saying, “Not just me living here now, is it? Nothing wrong with making this a place we all want to live in. Claire? What d’you think, you like the window?”

Dean and Cas both turn to look at her. She glances between the both of them before muttering, “I don’t care.”

Cas’s shoulders drop. Dean hopes that Cas learns quick that what Claire needs is a few gentle nudges before she opens up. “C’mon, kid. I know you have an opinion. Might as well weigh in on the house now while you still can, before I finish everything up and you’re shit out of luck.”

“Dean,” Cas mutters, exasperated, but Dean grins as Claire fights off her own smile, and he knows he’s gotten what he’s looking for.

“Fine,” Claire tells him. “Keep the window.”

Dean claps his hands together. “Looks like we’re keeping the window!”

“You guys are so weird,” Claire sighs. She shifts her bag on her shoulder. “Can I see my room now?”

“Yeah, alright, c’mon,” Dean says, and as he leaves the kitchen Cas and Claire fall into line behind him.

All three bedrooms are upstairs. They’re small, like Dean warned them, but it’s still a room with four walls. Dean gestures to the two unclaimed rooms and tells Claire to take her pick. He lets out a fake laugh when she points to the master bedroom behind him, telling her, “Nice try,” and grinning as she rolls her eyes.

Still, she’s got a smile on her face when she picks out the room overlooking the front lawn, and Dean keeps smiling to himself and knocks his shoulder against Cas’s. Cas watches her, anxious, as she pokes around before deeming it worthy.

“She likes it,” Dean promises Cas, even though it’s entirely possible Claire’s just tolerating the whole thing. Dean thinks it’s good either way. “Unclench, Cas. Go put your shit down in your room.”

Dean wanders into the master bedroom, dumping his duffel bag onto the bed. It’s the shit he keeps in the Impala for emergencies like whatever the fuck he went through yesterday, when he’s got to hit the road quick and might have to stay the night somewhere, so the clothes are a bit stale anyways. He throws them into his laundry and cleans up the rest of the shit and wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about nesting.

Jesus. He barely even has furniture in his room, let alone the rest of his house, so it’s embarrassing for him to be nesting. Hell, he’s barely got a house to nest in, with a shitton of renovations to do and a time crunch to do it now that he’s got two extra people living here. Dean realizes with a jolt, at that, that he doesn’t even have air mattresses or sleeping bags for Cas and Claire to use tonight. Muttering to himself, Dean bends down and picks a notebook and pen off the ground, tearing out the pages he’s used and tossing them on his bed before walking out again.

Claire’s sitting on the floor in her room, by the window. She’s got a tattered book in her hands and doesn’t look up when Dean knocks and shuffles in quietly. “We gotta get you some furniture,” Dean tells her.

“You think?” Claire asks. She turns the page of her novel.

“Yeah, you got a career in stand-up, I can tell. Here. Catch,” Dean says, and he waits until Claire raises her head to toss her the notebook and pen. She looks down at them for a second before glancing back up at Dean. “Figure you can start a list of the shit you want for your room. It may take us a bit to get it, but. Whatever you want. Cas and I, we’ll do our best. And since I gotta fix this room up, if you want it to look a certain way, you better put that down, too.”

Claire’s eyes widen in surprise. “Oh. Um. Thanks, Dean.”

“Sure,” Dean mutters, feeling strangely proud. “Just, uh. Get that to me whenever.”

Dean figures he’ll give her a minute to start on the list before dragging all of them out of the house for dinner, so he turns and leaves it at that. He’s not surprised to see Cas in the hallway, just out of Claire’s line of sight but still close enough that Dean’s sure he heard the whole conversation.

“C’mon,” Dean sighs, and Cas follows him into his own empty room.

“That was kind of you,” Cas tells him. Dean stops, catching sight of Cas’s closet door already opened. What few clothes Cas has have been folded and placed neatly on the ground. Dean’s gonna have to buy him some hangers. Hell, he’s probably going to have to buy Cas some more  _ clothes.  _ At this point he should just make a damn list. “Telling Claire that you would do that to her room.”

“It’s gonna be her room anyway,” Dean says dismissively. “She might as well make it what she wants. Uh, same goes for you, by the way. You can make a list if you want, or just tell me. I’ll do what I can. I’m, uh. Gonna go to the store tonight to buy an air mattress, at least for now, until I can get real beds.”

Cas gives Dean an amused smile. “You truly never stop wanting to help people, do you?”

The tips of Dean’s ears burn red. “Fuck off,” he mutters. “This is. You live here, we have to get you furniture. Shut up.”

“It’s not a bad thing, Dean, caring for people,” Cas calls, even as Dean storms out of Cas’s room and thunders down the stairs.

“Shut up!” Dean yells back. “We’re leaving for dinner in ten, get your asses in the Impala by then or I’m leaving you here!”

* * *

The first week of adjusting to two other people in his home goes smoother than Dean had anticipated. He gets two old mattresses from a neighbor who happens to be getting rid of theirs, and the day that Claire picks out her bedsheets is a good day for everyone after the smile and the cheer in her step. Dean abandons his plan to finish the floor level first, deeming it more important to make livable spaces for Claire and Cas. He didn’t mind the unfinished shit when it was just him, but it’s different with them in the house. On the day that Dean fixes the plumbing in the bathroom and installs a new showerhead, Claire takes an hour long shower and none of them fault her for it. Claire gives Dean her list, and Dean adds it to his own shit to get taken care of.

Most mornings, Dean stumbles out of bed and trips over a pile of clothes in the hallway that belong either to Claire or Cas and he swears under his breath as he stumbles down the stairs. Most mornings, he’s the one to brew the first cup of coffee and to slap some food on plates. His fridge is full of homemade leftovers and Claire’s favorite soda and leafy green shit that Cas likes to make smoothies with. Most mornings, they follow an order: Dean cooks, Claire cleans up, and Cas does the dishes. Dean thinks they’re all grateful for the routine.

On the eighth day after Cas and Claire unofficially-officially moved in, Dean shuffles into the kitchen with a yawn and catches Cas already sitting at the table. There’s an empty cup of coffee in front of him, and a plate with a half-eaten piece of toast.

Dean pours himself a cup of coffee. “You still hungry?”

“Hm?” Cas says absently.

“Cas, hey,” Dean says, jostling Cas’s shoulder as he takes a seat next to him in a folding chair at the table. Cas’s gaze finally snaps away from the spot on the wall he’d been staring at blankly, and he gives Dean a tired smile. “Do you want real breakfast?”

Cas glances down at his plate, like he’s surprised it’s there. “Oh,” he murmurs. “No, that’s alright. But thank you.”

“You good, dude?” Dean presses. “You seem kinda out of it.”

“Oh,” Cas says again. Dean leans back in his chair and waits. “I suppose I didn’t sleep well last night. I hoped a cup of coffee would help.”

“Did it?” Dean asks.

Cas huffs out a laugh. “Ask me after my second cup.”

Dean laughs, too, because his chest feels lighter than it has in years and it’s a lot easier now to let himself laugh at the little things. He brings his coffee mug and takes a sip. “Eugh,” he mutters. “Fucking dark roast.”

“I like it,” Cas says defensively.

Dean rolls his eyes. He takes another sip, anyway.

“Claire wants to go shopping,” Cas says finally, scowling at the word. Dean doesn’t even bother to hide his snort, which earns him a scowl of his own. “I was informed I cannot take her shopping at the Walmart again.”

Dean hums, mulling it over. “She probably wants new clothes before she starts school.”

He watches, then, as Cas blanches next to him. “Claire needs to go to school.”

“I’ve already started looking into it,” Dean says dismissively. He takes one last sip of his coffee and, very generously, doesn’t even complain when Cas reaches forward and takes the mug for himself. “You have a meeting with the registrar at the high school on Thursday.”

“Me?” Cas asks, voice rising in panic.

Dean levels him with an unimpressed look. “Ain’t my name on the birth certificate, so it can’t be me.”

“Dean,” Cas says. “I don’t—”

“Dean’s coming, too,” calls out Claire, as she appears in the kitchen with a bedhead that could rival Cas’s and a robe over her pajamas. Cas turns to look at her, spilling a bit of coffee on his collar in the process. “He’s just messing with you, Cas.”

“Killjoy,” Dean calls after Claire pulls a soda out of the fridge and turns on her heel. “Hey, wanna try real breakfast, kid?”

She answers by stomping up the stairs and slamming her door shut. Dean scoffs, but Cas just shakes his head in amusement and drains the rest of Dean’s coffee. 

Dean mutters, “Well, that was fun for three seconds. But she’s right, I’m going, too, so. You can untwist your halo.”

Cas grimaces, and Dean feels a little bad for that jab. “How does she already know about the appointment?”

“She’s gonna have to pick out her classes, so I gave her the course catalog and told her to be ready,” Dean answers. Cas doesn’t seem like he’s gonna eat the rest of his breakfast, so Dean pulls the plate closer to himself and picks up the toast. “I’m gonna need you to call Claire’s grandma and ask if she has Claire’s old school records, and if she doesn’t, you’re gonna have to call Bobby and ask for another favor.”

“I can do that,” Cas tells him, nodding. He’s holding the mug close to his face, cradling it in his hands. Dean wonders if he’s cold, and makes a note to see what the air conditioning is set to. “Do I have to take Claire shopping today, too?”

Dean takes a big bite out of the toast, and grins with his mouth full when Cas gives him an unimpressed look. “Yep. I gotta drive into Aurora to pick up a dresser for Claire. Someone’s selling it for like, twenty bucks.”

Hopefully, Cas says, “We could go with you to Aurora.”

Dean groans. “No way. This ain’t a family outing. It’s gonna be a boring drive. I’m gonna pick up a dresser from some suburban mom who just upgraded to a newer Ikea model, and I’m gonna load it in the truck, and I’m gonna bring it back. Quick and easy.”

“You’ve said that before,” Cas reminds him. “About a case or two. Cases, I believe, that ended up being the opposite of ‘quick and easy’. It may be in our best interest to go together. Divide and conquer. A spare set of hands can’t hurt when lifting the dresser.”

“ _No_ , ” Dean insists, pushing back out of his chair. He picks up the dishes off the table, including Cas’s second empty coffee mug, and takes them to the sink to rinse them out.

Exasperated, Cas turns in his seat and trains his eyes on Dean intently. The kind of look Dean’s sure the guy used to use to level hundreds of angels into compliance on the battlefield. “Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean parrots back.

“I’m going to go tell Claire,” Cas announces. He stands from the table and pushes both chairs in. Dean rolls his eyes so he doesn’t do something stupid like feel fond about it.

Instead, Dean points a soapy sponge at Cas menacingly and warns, “Don’t you dare.”

“Tell Claire what?” Claire asks, because it’s just Dean’s luck that the kid would decide to reappear back in the kitchen now. She throws her empty soda bottle away and puts a stack of dishes in the sink. When Dean looks at her in exasperation, she just raises an eyebrow.

“We’re going to Aurora,” Cas announces.

Dean groans. “No! No, we aren’t!”

“Why?” Claire asks.

Cas sounds far too excited for a guy voluntarily signing himself up for a thirty minute drive and a day of shopping. He leans forward, like he’s conspiring with Claire, and says, “Dean’s picking up a dresser for you, but we can take you shopping out there too. Make a day out of it.”

“You’re not coming,” Dean says shortly. He rinses off a plate and huffs when he has nowhere to put it. “Cas, will you—?”

“Of course,” Cas says easily, and he takes the plate from Dean and starts drying. “Are they expecting us at a certain time, Dean? Perhaps we have time to stop at the diner for a real breakfast before hitting the road.”

That finally catches Claire’s attention. “Yeah, let’s do that!”

Dean gapes between the two of them, a bit confused at how quickly they got here despite his insistence otherwise. But Claire looks damn hopeful and Cas looks so friggin’ happy that Claire liked something he suggested and Dean may be an asshole but he’s not a  _ monster,  _ so he lets out another groan just for the dramatics of it and says, “Fine, what the hell. Family outing to friggin’ Aurora, Colorado. Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?”

“Yep,” Claire answers, bounding back up the stairs.

Cas grins after her, looking pleased with himself. Dean hands him the mugs to dry next. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Whatever,” Dean says dismissively. “But you owe me. Like, dishes and laundry for a week. And you gotta make dinner one of these days, or something.”

Cas beams at him, pleased as punch, and Dean ducks his head to hide the flush on his cheeks.

  
  


Claire and Cas surprise him, standing in the living room ready to go exactly fifteen minutes after Dean agreed to let them come. Both of them look more excited than Dean thinks should be acceptable for a thirty minute drive. Cas has got a messenger bag strung over his shoulder that’s just about the ugliest thing Dean has ever seen.

“Alright, change of plans,” Dean says. “We gotta go somewhere to replace that god-awful bag you’re toting around, Cas. What the hell is that?”

Cas tightens his grip on the strap, glaring sharply at Dean. “I happen to feel very fond of this bag, Dean.”

Dean looks helplessly at Claire, but she just shrugs and says, “It’s cool.”

“Traitor,” he mutters, and Claire snorts.

They both follow Dean out to the garage, where the beat-up truck Pete loaned him for work resides. Dean doesn’t think Pete will mind if he takes it for this, too. “C’mon,” Dean says, smacking his hand against the garage door opener. “Load up.”

The truck has a purr that rivals the Impala’s, and Dean sighs as the thing kicks itself into life. It ain’t a bad truck, all things considered. Cas runs his hands along the dash after he climbs in, and Dean waits til Claire is tucked into the backseat to throw the truck into reverse and ease out of the garage.

“This is yours?” Cas asks.

Dean closes the garage door with a press of a button and waits in the driveway until he’s sure it’s closed. There’s no one else on the road as he pulls them out onto it. “Not really,” he answers, finally, pressing down on the gas. The truck roars down the road. “My boss said I can use it for work and house shit. Since I can’t really load up the Impala the way I need to.”

“I love it,” Cas says reverently.

“It’s just a truck, dude,” Dean tells him, but he files the information away. He’s not sure why.

Claire’s made friends at the diner, Dean finds out, pretty quickly after they get there. She darts off to a group of young kids in diner uniforms as soon as they walk inside. Cas touches Dean’s arm and shakes his head when Dean goes to call after her. Dean snaps his mouth shut and follows Cas as he chooses a booth.

They aren’t at the diner long. Dean spends most of breakfast allowing himself to get distracted by the chatter around them. It’s slow enough that Mythri, the server Dean’s gotten to know and one of the kids that’s taken a liking to Claire, joins them at their table for a few minutes to talk. There’s a few patrons at the bar that talk about a merger that bores Dean to tears. The cook in the back sings along to Madonna as he cooks. And, every now and then, there’s the gentle timbre of Cas’s voice when he finds something to say.

Mythri brings them the check right as Cas finishes his third cup of coffee for the day. Dean takes it and thanks her, climbing out of the booth. “I’ll go pay this,” Dean says to Claire and Cas. “You two, bathroom break. Now. We aren’t stopping before we get to Aurora.”

Claire slides out of the booth without much resistance, but Cas scowls. “I’m fine, Dean—”

“Go,” Dean says, pointing. “You had three cups of coffee. Go.”

When he gets to the register at the bar, Mythri is grinning at him. Dean bristles as he hands her the receipt again along with a credit card. “What’s that smile for?”

“I like your family,” she tells him as she swipes his card.

“They’re alright,” Dean mutters.

“He’s cute, you know,” Mythri comments. She shrugs when Dean looks up at her, confused. “Not my type, but he’s still cute. So nice going there, Dean-o.”

Dean takes his card back and picks up a pen off the counter. “You mean Cas? He ain’t bad to look at, I guess.”

Mythri laughs, for reasons Dean doesn’t understand, and thanks Dean when he hands her the receipt and slides her a cash tip. It’s a bit generous, but he likes the kid. And if she’s nice to Claire, then she’s alright in Dean’s book. “Well, good luck with that.”

“Thanks,” Dean mutters, not really sure what he’s thanking her for, and he can hear her laugh again even over the jingle of the bell as he walks out the door.

* * *

Despite all Dean’s complaining, it’s actually kind of nice driving through Aurora with Cas and Claire. And it is helpful, Dean learns pretty quick, to have a spare set of hands as he lifts the dresser into the bed of the truck. The woman he bought it from gives him a smile as he presses the cash into her hands and tells him, “You’ve got a nice family.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep ‘em for now,” Dean says, and he winks when Claire catches his gaze and rolls her eyes.

Claire rattles off a few stores she wants to hit, but there’s a challenge in her eye that Dean recognizes as her trying to see how far she can push, so he retaliates by suggesting a thrift store and isn’t surprised when she settles back into her seat and agrees that it’s fine. Dean can’t remember the last time he was in Aurora, so they drive around aimlessly until they find a place that looks promising. 

“There’s a lot of stuff here,” Cas says, once they enter, and Dean claps a hand on his back.

“Why don’t you go look at the books?” Dean suggests, pointing to the shelves of used novels and feeling pleased when Cas brightens at the sight of them. “I can look at clothes with Claire. You don’t mind, do you?”

Claire shrugs. Cas presses a kiss to the top of her head before wandering over to the books.

“He’s a weirdo,” Claire says, staring after him, but there’s a ghost of a smile on her mouth. Dean sighs and steers her towards the clothes rack.

Dean sucks at shopping, and he’s known that ever since he was a kid, but Claire seems content to wander the racks with him trailing behind her. She loads her arms up with clothes to try on and, when she can’t take anymore, turns to Dean with puppy-eyes until he relents and starts holding stuff for her. She’s far too smug when they finally make their way over to the dressing room.

“Limit eight per room,” Claire reads, so Dean takes a seat on the bench and holds all the clothes Claire doesn’t take in with her on her first round.

It surprises Dean, how much he doesn’t hate this. It’s nice to be out of the house. Nice to be spending time with people that aren’t Theresa or Pete or Mythri at the diner. Claire makes him laugh. Cas makes him smile. When Sammy had told Dean to get out and find a life he enjoyed, Dean hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected anything at all.

He’s humming a Metallica song under his breath and tapping his boot against the linoleum when Claire pops her head out of the dressing room and whistles to get Dean’s attention. She looks shy, and younger than she is, when she asks, “How much stuff can I get?”

Dean finds that he doesn’t really want to give her a limit. So, carefully, he says, “Just don’t go overboard.”

“Really?” Claire asks, doubtful.

“Yeah,” Dean promises. “But there’s a bunch of other shit here, too, so. If you wanna go look at other stuff for your room or whatever, keep that in mind, too.”

Claire’s face lights up. Dean wishes Cas were here to see it.

He hands her clothes when she asks for it, and hangs up the stuff she discards. The employees watch him with curious, amused eyes. Dean finds he doesn’t really mind that either.

Cas finds them, right after Dean’s handed Claire the last of the clothes she’s picked off the rack. He’s got some books in his hands and looks delighted by them. “Hello, Dean,” Cas says. He sits down on the bench next to him. “How is it going so far?”

“Good,” Dean says, sighing. “I think she’s found some stuff. She’s almost done, then she wants to go look at some other stuff. You found some books?”

“Yes, I did,” Cas answers. He shows them to Dean and explains the premise of each one. Some of them Dean’s already read, and the rest he could read the back if he really cared, but Cas is so damn excited about it that Dean doesn’t mind letting him talk.

Claire’s quiet, when she leaves the dressing room with an armful of clothes she’s decided to keep, but she looks happy. Dean and Cas let her lead, neither of them in any rush to get anywhere or look at anything.

In the end, Dean buys four books for Cas, more outfits for Claire than he can even begin to count, a few vintage posters that Claire liked for her room, and vinyls that Cas found that he picked up despite Dean’s reminder that they didn’t have a turntable at home. Dean sighs and thanks god for thrift-store pricing as he swipes his cards and hands off bags to Cas and Claire.

It’s midday, when they get back out to the truck. They load the bags into the backseat with Claire. Dean pulls onto the main road and Claire tentatively asks if they can stop somewhere for ice cream, and Cas gets so elated by the idea that Dean can’t help but feel persuaded himself.

Cas has Dean pull over at some park, and Claire orders ice cream for the three of them from a food truck in the parking lot and they set up a half-hearted picnic next to the truck. Cas takes the strawberry ice cream Claire got for him with a thankful smile, but Dean gives her a skeptical look as she hands him a scoop of black cherry.

“Trust me,” she says, rolling her eyes, so Dean does.

It’s not bad. Hell, the whole thing is kind of nice. The ice cream. Sitting in the grass. Fresh air. The friggin’ sun. Dean vaguely thinks that he should feel a little bit guilty at that. At the fact that he’s enjoying himself and laughing and having a good day when it’s only been a few months since Stull.

Cas drops a hand on Dean’s forearm and squeezes, bringing Dean back to the present like he knew exactly where Dean was headed with that. Dean ducks his head, grateful.

They lose track of how long they sit there, but eventually Dean’s arms start to feel a little crispy from sitting out in the sun, and Claire’s nose is a shade of pink that makes Dean feel a little bad he didn’t think about sunscreen, so he shepherds them back into the truck.

Claire hesitates, before climbing into the cabin, so Dean pauses, too. He’s surprised when she stretches up on her tiptoes and throws her arms around Dean’s shoulders. “This was cool,” she tells him, and she drops the embrace before he even really has a chance to respond.

“Cool?” Dean echoes.

“High praise, coming from me,” Claire says with a grin, and she pulls the door shut as she climbs into her seat.

Dean’s got a smile on his face as he climbs into the car. Cas stares blankly out of the passenger window, looking back over the park and the small pond they didn’t even get a chance to check out. Dean makes sure everyone’s buckled before bumping his elbow into Cas’s arm. “Hey. You good?”

Cas turns to look at him, like he’s only just realized Dean’s climbed into the car. “Yes,” Cas says slowly. “Are we going home now?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. He swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “We’re going home.”

It’s quiet, for the first few minutes of their drive. Dean feels sleepy from running around and from the ice cream and from the sun, and he’s sure that’s how Cas and Claire feel, too. But he’s used to the rumble of the road underneath tires, and it keeps him going. It feels comforting, at least. Something familiar amidst all this shit he’s doing for the first time.

“Thank you for letting us come,” Cas murmurs, so quiet that Dean barely hears it over the roar of the truck and the song playing on the radio. He glances at Cas but stays quiet as Cas points to the back. Claire is asleep, head resting against the window. She looks calmer than she has in a week. Dean looks away before the pressure that builds in his chest threatens to spill over.

“Yeah, well,” Dean mutters. He turns the radio down a little bit. “Think we all needed the day out, so. It worked out.”

Cas lets out a slow, steady breath. “It’s more difficult than I had anticipated. Adapting to being human. I don’t feel like I’m getting enough sleep. I’m hungry all the time. And I feel… a weight inside of me, every hour of the day, wondering if Claire is happy here.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, that’s just what being a human is like,” Dean comments. Cas laughs quietly. “But. Seriously. I think you’re doing alright. And, like. The fact that you care about Claire and are trying to take care of her. Means something. She’ll be grateful for it one day. Trust me on that.”

“I hope so,” Cas whispers. “I don’t want her to resent me.”

Dean glances at Cas from the corner of his eye. Cas thrums his fingers against his leg, tapping out a beat that doesn’t match the song playing in the truck. Dean wonders if Cas is hearing something else.

“Just give her time, man,” Dean says finally. He can feel Cas’s eyes settle on him, so he clears his throat and shuts off the part of him that feels self-conscious and continues, “She’s just a kid, and you gotta give kids time to adjust. If I learned anything growing up and raising Sammy, it was that. She’ll come around. Just keep. Carin’ about her and trying to do right by her.”

Cas is quiet, for a while. Dean thinks that’s the end of it. They sit in the quiet of the radio and the steady breaths Claire takes in the backseat, and they pass four mile markers before Cas finally says, “She likes you, Dean. I’m glad she can have you, even if she doesn’t like me.”

Dean’s cheeks heat up. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Cas tells him, in the same damn earnest tone Dean is far too familiar with now.

“It’s nothing,” Dean insists. He looks sharply at Cas before turning back to face the road. “It’s just knowing what it was like to be a kid. Guess it helps that my life got fucked up by the supernatural when I was a kid, too. Makes it easier to understand what she’s going through, I guess.”

Cas hums. “Well. Even without your justifications and your denial. I think Claire is happy that you’re here. You’re helping her adjust. And I am grateful for you, Dean, for that much.”

Dean doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to articulate that even if that’s true, if he is helping Claire adjust, that it’s only because Cas and Claire are there helping  _ him  _ adjust, too. Dean’s carried a burden on his shoulders since Stull that feels lighter ever since he pressed house keys into Cas and Claire’s hands. Whatever Cas thinks Dean’s done for them, all of it is because they made him want to do it. To be better.

And hell, if that ain’t something. Dean expects the weight of it to wear him down, too, but it doesn’t feel like the world on his back. It feels like an arm strung around his shoulders. Comforting. Warm.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i set myself on a tentative posting schedule of wednesdays but then i got excited and wrote this and also it's my bestie's bday so i'm dedicating this chapter to her bc i love her mwah mwah mwah
> 
> as always thank u sabi and cait for letting me be a maniac and blow up ur texts abt my silly little project and for reassuring me that shit makes sense my ride or dies my home skillet bis-cotts i love them<3
> 
> content warnings for grief, anger/anxiety attacks, and mentioned past character death. nothing more than what you see in pretty much every episode but important to note just in case. take care of urselves!

The real world comes crashing down onto Dean a lot sooner than he would have preferred.

He wakes up on the morning he’s meant to return to work with a headache he can feel behind his eye and a heaviness that he carries in his hands when he remembers that Sam is gone.

For a while, Dean stays in bed. On his mattress on the ground, because he doesn’t even have a bedframe yet, covered in sheets that don’t feel like motel sheets so they feel  _ wrong,  _ and for the first time since he moved to Colorado, Dean considers calling out and spending the whole day curled up in bed. He won’t, because Theresa and Pete are expecting him, and because Cas and Claire need him, and because even on his worst day’s he’s got a sense of responsibility that outweighs anything else he feels. 

Dean watches the minutes change on his alarm clock slowly, until it reaches six am and his alarm starts blaring. Dean turns it off then pulls his arm back under the covers. Watches as the minutes continue on. One, two, three. Five. Ten. Twenty.

He’s not sure what actually gets him out of bed, but Dean feels like he blinks then he’s suddenly standing in the kitchen with his hand hovering over the coffee machine. Outside the kitchen windows, the sun is starting to rise. Dean stands and watches it and waits for it to feel like it matters.

Breakfast. Dean should make breakfast. Put some food on the table for later when Cas and Claire get up, since he’ll probably be at work by the time either of them get out of bed. And coffee. That’s why he came down here, isn’t it? A cup of joe in the morning before climbing into his work truck and driving his ass to the shop. That’s routine. It was, at least, before Cas and Claire. Hell, it was vaguely routine before Dean even planted his feet in Colorado’s soil, starting his day with shitty motel brewed coffee that he and Sammy choked down before hitting the road.

Hell, if that ain’t something. Dean doesn’t feel like he can trust his own two feet to get him out the door but he has routine to fall back on so it gets him moving. He shovels coffee grounds into the machine and starts it. Pulls leftover pancake batter from yesterday out of the fridge and gets to work grilling them up for Cas and Claire. Easy enough that they can stick ‘em in the microwave and have something warm to eat. He writes cereal and milk on the grocery list, only faintly aware that he’s even noticed they’re low at all. He thinks he eats a pancake. He pours some coffee into a thermos to take with him on the drive and doesn’t even worry about cream or sugar.

The date on the calendar tells Dean it’s been three months since Stull. He rips the thing off it’s nail and doesn’t look back.

It’s not a long drive to Woody’s, and most mornings Dean’s grateful for that but today he wishes it were. He’s missed the nit-and-grit of the job, missed coating his hands in motor oil as he takes vehicles apart and puts them back together, and yesterday he’d been so damned excited to get back to it that Claire got so annoyed with his chatter about it she stormed out of the room.

Today, though, it’s the worst thing he could imagine doing.

The building’s still locked when he gets there, so he digs the keys out of his pocket and opens up. Goes through the routine of flipping on lights, unlocking doors, and restocking the waiting area before settling in at the desk and booting up the computer. 

The computer is older than fucking dirt, so it takes its sweet time booting up. Dean sorts through yesterday’s papers, trying to get an idea of what today will bring. Same as he’s done every shift since starting here. Routine.

Pete comes in ten minutes after Dean’s opened everything up, and he’s got two to-go cups of coffee from the diner in his hands. Dean mutters a grateful response as Pete hands one off, standing so Pete can take his spot at the desk. Pete claps a hand on his back. “Good to see you back here, kiddo.”

“Yeah,” Dean says gruffly.

“You miss us?” Pete asks, with a shit-eating grin, as he pulls up the scheduled repairs for the day. Dean’s not surprised to only see two on the list. Bennett’s a small enough place as is, and there’s a fancier shop on Main Street with shiny new doors that likely gets a lot more traffic than Woody’s does. Still, they’ve got regulars. A few people Dean’s starting to recognize. Pete and Theresa know them all by name. That had been part of the appeal, settling down in a place like this. Being able to go somewhere and having someone know who you were.

“If that helps you sleep at night,” Dean says, and he forces himself to grin at Pete like everything’s fine. Like his skin isn’t crawling just because someone’s eyes are on him. Like his lungs aren’t trying to claw their way out of his throat as he forgets how to breathe.

Pete just grunts. “How’s the family?”

For a second, Dean’s heart stops beating in his chest, and he can feel a sharp stab of pain wrap around the base of his spine. Dean gapes at Pete, open-mouthed, trying to remember how to make his fucking  _ hands  _ work so he can do something other than stand here like an idiot.

Then Pete continues, “They just moved in with you, right? Maggie said she’s seem a couple other folks at your place ever since you came back.”

The suspension of Dean’s impending panic attack comes crashing down on him all at once, and he’s terrified for a moment that he’s gasping for air as he realizes Pete wasn’t asking about Sam, there’s no way Pete would even know to ask about Sam, and the family he’s referring to is the family that Dean cooked a meal for today before he forced his shaking hands to wrap around a steering wheel and drive him to work. The family that’s lived under Dean’s roof for two whole friggin’ weeks now.

“Maggie?” Dean repeats. It’s just about all he’s able to manage, distracted by the sound of rushing blood he can hear in his ears.

“Your neighbor?” Pete clarifies. He squints at Dean through his glasses. “You alright there, kid?”

Neighbor, Dean thinks faintly. That’s right. Maggie Baker, who lives across the street with her three daughters. “Oh,” Dean says finally. “Right, duh. Yeah, I’m. I’m good. The family is good. They’re settling in okay.”

Pete doesn’t stop looking at Dean, and the scrutiny makes Dean feel like his muscles are gonna break right out of his skin. Finally, Pete hums. “Good. You need anything in that house? You didn’t have much furniture when it was just you, God knows what it looks like with a full house.”

It surprises Dean, in all honestly. The kindness that Pete, and Theresa, continually show him. They’ve only known him for two months. Dean tells Pete as much.

“Good people recognize good people, Dean,” Pete tells him. “That’s why Theresa hired you on. That’s why you found us in the first place. Drove past the other shop and didn’t stop until you saw this hunkered down piece of shit building, right?”

Dean ducks his head. His skin still feels too tight and he’s not sure his lungs are working right, so instead of confirming what Pete already knows, Dean just mutters nonsensically under his breath and stomps his ass into the garage. Pete doesn’t follow him.

It’s slow in the shop in a way that infuriates Dean for reasons he can’t really articulate. He takes apart and reassembles the same disembodied engine three times before Pete gets annoyed with him and tells him to knock it off. Someone walks in for an oil change at just before ten, and Dean takes it before Pete can even try to get out of his chair.

He feels restless. On edge. His hands feel too light without something in it. He knows he’s aching for the familiar cold metal of a gun, but a grease-stained ratchet will do for now. Still, the whole thing takes him just over thirty minutes, and not even the soft smile of the nice girl who waves on her way out is enough to make Dean feel like he’s in any less of a funk.

Shit really hits the fan when Theresa comes in.

It’s her day off, but Dean’s learned that she’s almost as much of a control freak as he is, so he isn’t surprised to return to the front desk and see Theresa leaning against the counter. She beams when she sees him, pulling him into a tight hug that knocks the wind out of him.

“I was starting to think we’d never see your sorry ass here again,” she tells him, laughing. “We were half convinced you’d hole up in that house with your new roommates ‘til the end of time.”

“Nice to see you, too, Ther,” Dean mutters, pulling himself out of her embrace. To her credit, she doesn’t even look put out by it. It somehow makes Dean feel worse.

Theresa reaches over the counter and pulls up a tupperware container full of food. “You hungry?” she asks, and her tone tells Dean she isn't looking for a real answer. She pushes the food at his chest and reaches down again to grab the plastic fork Pete hands her. “Figured you might want some leftovers since you missed out on a couple of dinners at our place.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” Dean protests. She doesn’t take the food back when he tries to hand it to her.

“I don’t  _ have  _ to do anything,” Theresa says shortly. “I  _ choose  _ to. So take my damn food, boy.”

Dean sets it down on the counter. “I appreciate the gesture, but I ain’t hungry.”

Theresa makes a dismissive sound, saying, “I wasn’t born yesterday, Dean. Pete told me he’s seen you drink two cups of coffee this morning alone, and I’m more than willing to bet you had one on your drive in, too. That ain’t enough to constitute a meal in my book. I’m not having an employee collapse under a car because he over-caffeinated himself and refused to eat some real ass food. I’m tellin’ you, eat.”

“And I’m telling you, I’m not fuckin’ hungry!” Dean snaps. He barks it out so loudly it echoes in the empty office.

Theresa looks at him with a calm expression, but Pete just shakes his head and looks away. The silence is broken by a bell ringing as the front door is pushed open. Some uncertain kid, no older than seventeen, stands in the doorway. “Uh,” he says, glancing between the three of them. “I got a flat tire?’

“Pete, you can handle that, right?” Theresa asks. She doesn’t look away from Dean.

“Course,” Pete says, bristling, and he stands and follows the kid outside to look at the tire. The bell jingles again as the door opens and closes.

Dean prepares himself for an ass-whooping, knowing he just yelled at his boss and one of the first people to show him kindness since planting his ass in this town. It’s a bad feeling, Dean thinks. Like he’s fucked up before he even got a chance to prove he’s better than this.

But Theresa surprises him. Her voice is still easy as she says, “Why don’t you follow me out back, Dean?”

Out back is the salvage yard. Old junker cars they keep around because customers ask them to or because they think they might be able to strip some parts. Dean’s only been back here a few times, mostly just to wander when curiosity got the best of him on the slowest days. There’s a few cars that aren’t in terrible shape. Dean thinks a little TLC might get them up and working just fine. But Theresa leads him back passed all of them, until they stop in front of a car with the side smashed in. The kind of damage most cars don’t come back from.

“Shit,” Dean murmurs.

“I’ll say,” Theresa says. “Damn hell of a story. Whole thing was totalled, nothing salvageable. Except for the one survivor. Only person to walk away from that accident, and even then… well. Not everything was salvageable there, either.”

Dean looks away from the car. “So how’d it end up here, then?” he asks. “If it’s no use?”

And he’s surprised, then, when Theresa gives him a wry grin. “I said the whole thing was totalled, not that it was of no use.”

Theresa presses a baseball bat into Dean’s hands, and for the first time he notices the dents on the trunk of the car that couldn’t have come from an accident like that, the beatings on the opposite side of the car that could only have come from someone with one hell of a chip in their shoulder taking a swing at something bigger than a hunk of metal.

Dean gets it. So he takes a swing, too.

Slams the baseball bat into the top of the trunk so hard it reverberates through the entire salvage yard. Slams it hard enough to leave a dent. And he swings. He swings at every damn chain he’s got on his ankle and he does it to free himself. He swings at God, and at Heaven and at Hell. He swings at Stull. He swings at a demon with yellow eyes. He swings at his father. He swings at his own reflection in the mirror and eyes he doesn’t recognize and he pours every ounce of hurt he’s carried in his chest for over thirty years into every damn hit.

He doesn’t realize he’s been yelling until he swings so hard that the bat slides right from his fingertips. But the loss of the bat from his grip does not take his anger with it, so he swings with his fists. Pounds his hands into the beat-up metal of the trunk until his hands feel wet but when he pulls them away, it’s not the blood he notices, but the tears falling from his own damn eyes. And that’s it, ain’t it? That’s what he needed? A cry he hasn’t let himself have for as long as he can remember.

Theresa wraps her arms around him when his weight slips and he stumbles against the car. She holds him tight, even as he grips her flannel between his oil-and-bloodstained hands. Doesn’t seem to mind the fact that Dean was a mess even before he fucked up his hands by pounding them into a car and as snot is running down his face while he cries like a friggin’ baby. Hell, maybe she doesn’t care. She brought him out here for a reason, right? She fucking gets it.

It’s not until later, when Theresa leads him back into the shop and back into her private office that Dean finally finds his voice again, asking, “So what was it like walking away from an accident like that?”

Theresa doesn’t say anything until she’s dropped a wet rag into his hands that Dean uses to clean his face, then sits down in front of him with a first aid kit. He doesn’t complain as she takes her hands into his and starts cleaning up the busted skin.

“Shitty,” she finally answers, and she smirks when Dean lets out a startled laugh. “Something like that, you never really forget, you know? Changed my life in a lot of ways. Kept everything the exact damn same in others.”

Dean doesn’t even hiss when Theresa dabs rubbing alcohol over the cuts, and that makes her raise her eyebrows, but she doesn’t say anything about it. Dean wouldn’t even know where to begin if she did. “Who’d you lose?” he asks carefully.

There’s a heaviness in the air, even as Theresa jokes, “What gave it away? The dent marks all over that car before you got your hands on it, or me telling you only one person survived?”

“The look in your eyes,” Dean says honestly. Theresa’s gaze snaps up to his. “No one looks like that unless they’ve lost someone.”

“Everybody loses somebody,” Theresa answers, automatic. She drops his hands. Without the dried blood, the scrapes barely look that bad. They’ll be more bruising than anything else, but Dean’s used to that.

He shrugs, and flexes his fingers as Theresa pulls away. “Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s why I know the look.”

That takes her by surprise. Still, Theresa doesn’t answer until she’s put the first aid kit away and tossed the rag into a basket by her desk. She leans against a counter and crosses her arms, and Dean just looks at her. “My first husband,” she says finally. “He was in the passenger seat. Some drunk idiot blew through a stop sign. I got pulled out of the car with just a broken arm. He was dead before they even got him to the hospital.”

“And the driver?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Died in surgery,” Theresa tells him. “Never even got to hear the kid’s voice.”

Dean nods slowly. He wipes his palms on his pants. “Would it have made you feel better? If you had?”

“Nah,” Theresa says. “Probably would’ve made me feel a hell of a lot worse.”

Neither of them say anything for a moment. Just content to sit there with the weight of the confession sharing the room with them. Eventually, Theresa pushes herself off the counter and leaves the office.

She’s back, just a moment later, with two tupperwares in one hand and plastic forks in the other. This time Dean doesn’t protest as she hands him the food. She’s already warmed it up. Chicken and rice, and some kind of sauce that makes his mouth water just a bit. He hadn’t realized until just now, but Dean feels as though he’s starving.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” he says, around a bite of food, when he realizes he’d never said anything after Theresa told him what happened.

She shrugs. “Thanks. But it was a long time ago. Time helps. And Pete.”

“Pete’s a good guy,” Dean tells her.

“You always state the obvious, or is that something you just pull out on the bad days?” Theresa asks. She’s grinning when Dean rolls his eyes. “You gonna tell me who you lost now, or…”

Dean hesitates as he raises another forkful of rice to his mouth. He knows what she’s asking. Knows the obvious answer is to state the most recent. The one that’s fucking him up the most. But her question unravels a knot in his lungs, something he hadn’t even known was there until it wasn’t anymore, and he answers honestly, “Everyone.”

Theresa puts her food down and stares him down. “Dean,” she says softly. “I know that’s not true.”

“Good as,” Dean tells her. “My mom. My dad. Friends. My brother. Pretty much anyone who gave a damn about me once or twice or who I ever dared to call family.”

“Then who the hell did you let move into your house, kid?” Theresa asks, leaning forward. “The gardener? Last I checked, people don’t skip town for a few days on a family emergency and slink back into town with a car full of people that weren’t family.”

“That’s different,” Dean argues.

Theresa raises an eyebrow. “Sure it is. How’s it different?”

And Dean’ll be damned but he doesn’t even know how to answer that. He ducks his head and puts his empty tupperware on Theresa’s desk and mumbles, “I thought he was dead, too.”

“Dean,” Theresa sighs. “I knew when Pete told me he hired you that you had one hell of a story to tell. I knew after meeting you that I probably wouldn’t be able to believe half of it. But all of that, it don’t matter much now, because you’re starting a new story. Starting the hell over. That’s why you came here, ain’t it? Got the first job you could find and bought the first house you could afford. New chapters bring new characters, but that don’t mean that the old ones can’t come back.”

Dean blinks at her, slowly. Feels his cheeks heat up in shame as he tells her, “Most of them can’t. Most of them are gone.”

“So make the most of who you got left, dummy,” Theresa tells him. Like it’s simple. Like it’s just a choice he can make. Hell, maybe it is. But he doesn’t even know how to start. “You’re a good guy, Dean. And we like you ‘round here. You don’t have to carry the whole world on your shoulders now. Let your house carry some of the burden. Hell, let this damn town help you.”

“Your advice after me telling you that everyone I let in dies is to let more people in?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrow. Theresa throws her head back and laughs, a full-bellied thing that even makes Dean smile after everything.

“My advice is we all lose people eventually,” Theresa corrects. “It ain’t worth it, shutting out people because of that.”

Dean nods. Tries to take her words to heart. He knows it’s true. Hell, he’s known it his whole damn life. It’s why he cares so much. Why it’s so damn easy for him to care. But it’s still hard, he thinks, and maybe the reality is that it’s always hard and he’s just gotta accept that. Maybe reality is a lot of things. Quietly, Dean confesses, “I lost my brother three months ago today.”

“What happened?” Theresa asks calmly.

And Dean can’t really tell her the whole truth, but saying that Sammy dies doesn’t feel right at all, so Dean squeezes his eyes shut and says, as earnestly as he can, “I don’t really know.”

“I’m sorry,” Theresa tells him. Dean knows she means it.

He echoes the same words Theresa said to him earlier. “Time helps, right?” It makes them both smile.

“And family,” Theresa agrees. “You gonna tell me about the strangers you moved into your house, now?”

Dean could kiss her, honestly, for somehow knowing the exact distraction he needed after whatever the hell he just went through. It’s a breath of fresh air as he sits back in his seat and tells Theresa about Cas and Claire, their unique little situation and the way they’re slowly making it work. He makes Theresa laugh, telling her a story about Cas attempting to make Claire cupcakes that ended with cake batter on the ceiling and pink frosting thrown in the trash. Hell, it makes him laugh, too. And ain’t that the damnedest thing.

“So,” Theresa says, and there’s a twinkle in her eyes that spells trouble. “You’ve basically adopted this girl, huh?”

“I mean, not really?” Dean answers with a shrug. “She’s Cas’s kid. She just lives in my house.”

Theresa snorts. “A kid who lives in your house that you buy clothes for and cook for and clean for. Sounds like you’re playing house to me.”

“The kid needs a stable environment to grow up in! I’m not gonna be an ass to her just because she’s not mine. You take care of kids when they need you. And Cas is down on his luck right now, so he and Claire need someone to take care of them.”

“Mmhm,” Theresa hums. She stands up, grabbing the empty tupperwares from beside her and by Dean to rinse them out. “And this Cas. He just a friend?”

Dean furrows his brow. “He’s family.”

“That ain’t what I’m askin’ and you know it, boy.”

When Dean looks up at her again, Theresa’s raising a skeptical eyebrow at him. Dean just shakes his head. “Ah, hell, Theresa,” he groans. “Nothing like that. He’s got his own room, same as Claire. I’m just the party host.”

Theresa shrugs, and there’s a smirk on her face that makes Dean feel like he’s been put on display. He’s not sure for what yet. “Yeah, I’m sure, kid. Well, free therapy’s over. I fed you, let you get your rage on, and I let you spill your guts, and now I can’t stand the look of you. Get the fuck out of my office.”

“Damn,” Dean says, laughing. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“Can’t deny I didn’t make you feel better, kid,” Theresa tells him. “You looked like you were three minutes away from a breakdown when I got here and now you got a damn grin on your face. Call that a win in my book.”

She’s right, Dean knows. Dean woke up this morning feeling like he wouldn’t even be able to drag his sorry ass out of bed, but now at least the pain isn’t wrapping around his chest so hard that he finds it impossible to breathe. His hands will hurt like hell tomorrow and there’s no telling what the hell his head is gonna feel like, but Theresa did make him smile. Three months after Sam and after everything that’s happened since then, Dean’s half tempted to call that a damn miracle.

* * *

Dean gets home and realizes he’s gonna have to redefine what he classifies as a miracle.

If Theresa putting a grin on his face counted as anything, it’s blown out of the water when he walks in through the garage and finds Claire and Cas in the kitchen cooking something up. They both freeze when Dean walks in, like deer caught in headlights. Dean raises an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?” he asks suspiciously.

Claire picks up a mixing bowl and holds it protectively to her chest, narrowing her eyes into slits like she’s afraid Dean’s gonna take it away from her as she answers, “Cooking.”

“Well, Claire is cooking,” Cas clarifies. “I am mostly just supervising.”

Dean toes his work boots off and puts them in the garage before shutting the door firmly behind him. Curiosity gets the best of him as he prods, “What are you making?”

“You’ll find out,” Claire tells him, and she turns on her heel to get back to whatever she’s doing. Dean glances at Cas, who just shrugs innocently, even though Dean is certain that the bastard knows exactly what is going on. “Cas, tell Dean to leave us alone and go upstairs and change.”

“Dean, leave us alone and go upstairs and change,” Cas parrots.

Looking back and forth between the both of them in bafflement, Dean shakes his head before sighing and stomping out of the kitchen. “Don’t burn my kitchen down!” he yells as he climbs up the stairs.

“Why do you think I benched Cas?” Claire yells back.

It’s kind of a relief, if Dean’s being honest. Coming home after an emotionally taxing day and finding he doesn’t have to put dinner on the table. He’d been half tempted to order a pizza and call it good, but knowing that Claire and Cas are working downstairs together makes him glad he waited until he got home to decide. Those two could use some friggin’ family time, and Dean could use a damn shower.

He strips himself out of his work coveralls and throws them into an already-overflowing basket of laundry, making a mental note to take that shit back downstairs when he’s done. The hot stream of the water immediately makes him feel better. Dean sighs into it.

Knowing it’s entirely possible he could spend an hour in here doing absolutely nothing, Dean forces his arms to move and clean himself before he decides  _ fuck it  _ and just lets himself have this. A quiet moment. Rare, since the new houseguests moved in. The thought of that makes him laugh. Cas isn’t a loud guy, and Claire’s been all but a recluse holing away in her room most the time, and still Dean feels like he barely gets a damn moment of silence. Must just be living with someone. God knows he certainly felt like he never got any time alone when he travelled from place to place with Sam.

Dean’s barely pulled his ass out of the shower and put it into some clean clothes before his phone starts ringing like it’s got something to prove. Dean sighs as he picks it up and doesn’t recognize the number. He’s in the habit of ignoring anything he doesn’t have saved, but since bringing an ex-angel-turned-human and a moody teenager into his house and trying to set both of them up with normal lives, Dean’s learned he can’t just let everything go to voicemail.

“Hello?” he answers. He’s only half paying attention as he rubs the towel over his wet hair.

“Dean Winchester?” says the unfamiliar voice.

“Whose asking?”

“My name is CJ Barrett, I worked a case with Jo Harvelle just over a year ago,” she tells him, and Dean’s spine straightens automatically at the mention of Jo. “I, uh. I was trying to get in contact with her again when I found out what happened. Bobby Singer told me I should give you a call?”

Dean’s stomach twists uncomfortably. “So I could explain it?”

CJ hesitates, and it does nothing to make Dean’s nerves feel any less exposed. But she sounds young. Around the same age as Jo, if not younger, if Jo trusted her, so Dean swallows his own trepidation and waits until CJ finally says, “No, so I could get your help with something.”

“I’m retired,” Dean says automatically.

“I know,” CJ tells him, quick. “I’m not asking you to come out here. I just need help figuring out what I’m dealing with.”

The case sounds simple enough, as she starts to explain it. A few adults turning up dead in the history department of some university, all of them linked to some grad student from a couple decades back who disappeared under mysterious circumstances. It’d be an easy salt and burn case, if CJ had any idea where to start looking for the remains. Dean’s laptop is downstairs, so he hangs his towel up before hurrying down there to grab it.

Claire and Cas both look at him as he sits down at the table and slides his laptop towards him, but they’re both quiet when they notice he’s on the phone. CJ starts listing the names of the victims the spirit’s already nabbed, and Dean types it into his search bar.

“Alright, it looks like all these people were in the same cohort,” Dean tells her, pulling up an archived article and scanning it quickly. “Brenda Yates, Jonathan Cook, Cecilia Briggs… the student that went missing, what was his name?”

“Peter,” CJ answers. “Peter Frankie.”

“Yeah, he was in their group, too,” Dean sighs. “How much you wanna bet something happened between them that lead to his disappearance and now he’s looking for revenge?”

There’s rustling on the other end of the line, probably as CJ pulls up her own computer or some pens and paper. “Who else is listed in that article? Maybe one of them is still alive and will tell me what happened.”

“If you can find out what happened, you can find the sucker and torch the bones,” Dean agrees. He looks over at Cas sharply when he hears a quick intake of breath, but Cas is staring steadfast out the kitchen window. Dean frowns. “Uh. Sorry. Yeah, it looks like there’s two other people mentioned. Sara Soriano and Elizabeth Wright.”

CJ swears quietly over the line. “I  _ knew  _ they knew something. I just talked to them.”

“Both of them?” Dean asks skeptically.

“They acted like they didn’t know the others,” CJ tells him. “At least, Sara did. Elizabeth told me she used to know Cecilia. They both left pretty quickly when I was getting ready to question them.”

Dean searches Elizabeth and Sara next, looking for an address. “Suspicious.”

Laughing, CJ says, “You’re telling me.”

“Dean, dinner’s ready,” Claire says, and Dean glances over at her. She looks so damn proud as she dishes up whatever she made that for a second Dean can’t help but beam back at her. Doesn’t matter if she cooked the worst meal in the world, Dean’s gonna act like he loves it.

“I’m almost done,” he promises her. “CJ, I got an address. Elizabeth Wright and Sara Wright… née Soriano. Heh. Two birds, one stone I guess.”

CJ takes down the address as he reads it off to her, thanking him profusely. Dean makes a note to himself to help her get set up with some of this shit on her own, especially if she’s gonna keep hunting alone, and tells her to keep him posted about how it goes. He’s hanging up the phone and closing his laptop just as Claire comes over and puts a plate down next to him.

Cas sullenly sinks into the spot next to Dean and gives him a half-hearted, unimpressed look.

“What?” Dean asks, defensive. “My hair look bad or something?”

“Who was on the phone?” Cas says instead.

Dean blinks. “Uh, a hunter. Her name’s CJ. She needed some help on this case she’s tracking in West Virginia.”

Cas thanks Claire as she puts a plate down in front of him then turns back to Dean, immediately moody again. This guy’s mood swings could give Dean whiplash if he thought about them too hard. “I thought you weren’t hunting anymore.”

“I’m not,” Dean says, taken aback. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

Claire sits down heavily in her chair and looks expectantly at Cas and Dean. Whatever friggin’ quarrel Cas was trying to have gets shelved in favor of digging in. Cas may not know much as a human, but he picked up pretty quickly on the fact that they gotta put Claire first no matter what.

“You made fried chicken?” Dean asks, surprised.

“Kinda,” Claire says with a shrug, and she may be a teenager who acts like she’s against the whole world, but Dean knows what pride in your cooking feels like and he can see it on the kid’s face. “It’s baked, not fried, but. Tastes the same.”

Dean nods, impressed. “We’ll see about that.”

It’s the right response. Claire huffs out a laugh but rolls her eyes to hide it, and they all dig in. It’s freaking good. Dean’s not really surprised, when he thinks about it. Claire’s been watching him in the kitchen enough times since she moved in, and she probably helped her mom and her grandma a lot when she was still with them. He gives her a thumbs up that makes Claire duck her head to hide her grin. When she looks at Cas, Dean kicks his leg under the table to get him to say something.

Cas glares at him first, but turns when Dean gestures subtly to Claire, and then the poor guy gets it. He looks down at his plate again before saying, “This is very good, Claire.”

“Not too tough?” she asks. She fiddles with the fork between her fingers. “Baking chicken, sometimes it gets too tough.”

“It’s not tough at all,” Cas answers, and Claire’s shoulders sag in relief. She starts eating again with her own renewed vigor. Unfortunately, Claire being satisfied that she’s done well means that Cas can turn bitch-mode back on when he turns back to Dean. “Are you leaving to help with that hunt?”

“What?” Dean says, startled. “No! I got work. I got you guys. Claire starts school, like, next week. You need me here. And I’m  _ retired. _ Out of the game.”

Frowning, Cas prods, “But you’re still taking phone calls.”

Dean’s head is spinning. He’s not entirely sure what Cas is getting at, here, and it annoys him because he’s already had a hell of a day and it was supposed to get better when he came home and found his kid in the kitchen making dinner just because she wanted to. Dean scowls and drops his gaze back to his plate. “I’ve taken one phone call. She just had a question, I helped answer it. Small potatoes, dude.”

“I don’t understand what potatoes have to do with this,” Cas argues.

Chiming in, Claire says, “It’s just an expression, Cas.”

Dean and Cas both startle at that, turning to look at her as though they’d forgotten she was there and listening to them bicker. Dean’s neck heats up in embarrassment. So much for what he told Theresa about trying to provide a steady environment for the kid.

She looks nonplussed, though. Dean has the half-assed thought about whether or not she’d even care if he went on a hunt before he forces himself away from it.

Cas still looks sour, and that damn expression on his face could kill Claire’s good mood if she paid too much attention to it, so Dean reaches forward with his free hand and squeezes Cas’s wrist until Cas finally looks up at him reluctantly. “Dude, I’m not going anywhere. Okay? Just answering a question when I can. It’d be a shame for all this experience to go to waste.”

“But you won’t go on hunts,” Cas clarifies, and he sinks back into his seat when Dean nods in agreeance. “Alright.”

Dean drops his arm and goes back to his food.

The rest of dinner is uneventful. Claire answers Dean’s questions about the classes she wants to sign up for, and looks put out when Dean reminds her she’s probably not going to be able to fill her schedule with just arts classes. It’s a short-lasting mood for her, though, broken by Cas spilling half a glass of water down his shirt when Dean makes him laugh.

Cas suggests watching a movie together, but Claire lets out a fake yawn and hurries up to her room instead. Dean watches as Cas’s shoulders drop in disappointment.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says. He pushes himself away from the table and grabs both his and Cas’s empty plates. “She cooked us dinner. That means she likes us.”

Cas trails behind him absentmindedly, and doesn’t complain after Dean dumps the plates in the sink and hands him empty tupperwares to put dinner away. Dean gets started on the dishes, more out of habit than anything else. “I worry I’m smothering her,” he admits. “But I don’t want her to think I don’t want to spend time with her.”

“She’ll come around,” Dean mutters.

He’s not even surprised when, after he’s put the leftovers in the fridge, Cas settles himself in spot next to Dean and holds out expectant hands. Dean passes him a clean plate, and Cas dries it. “I worry I’m smothering you, too,” Cas says, apropos nothing, and Dean straightens in surprise.

“What?”

Cas frowns. He won’t meet Dean’s eye, choosing instead to watch out the window as the sky slowly darkens. “I take up space in your house, and on your couch. I follow behind you every day because I’ve got nothing else to do. I eat the food you prepare but offer nothing in return. And now you’re taking phone calls from hunters, and I am worried that you’re going to take a hunt and leave just so that you’ll have a moment without me as your shadow.”

“Cas,” Dean says, exasperated. “Is that what all the drama was about? Jesus Christ. I don’t care that you follow me around. You’re learning, dude. You’ve been human for like eight whole minutes. I know I’m a dick, but I’m not gonna kick you while you’re down, alright?”

“So you’re saying I don’t annoy you?” Cas asks with a raised eyebrow.

Dean shrugs and hands him another plate. “Nah, you always annoy me. But that’s not new.”

Cas flicks the dish towel at Dean petulantly, and Dean laughs because he feels like he’s able to again, and for a moment they let the silence sit with them. Sharing the same space that grows smaller each time their arms brush.

They decide to watch a movie even if Claire doesn’t want to, because Dean’s bone-tired after returning to work but he’ll be damned if he’s gonna spend the night wallowing alone, so he sits his ass down on the old couch while Cas picks out a movie and very charitably doesn’t even complain when Cas plops down right next to him.

“What’d you pick?” Dean asks, reaching for the remote to flip the tv on.

“The Lost Boys,” Cas tells him, and Dean hums in appreciation. He knows part of it’s gotta be the fact that he’s the only one showing Cas any movies at all, but he can’t deny that the guy has taste.

Dean’s in the middle of fast-forwarding through the previews when Cas’s squirming finally gets on his nerves enough for him to snark out, “Someone put itching powder in your underwear? What’s your problem?”

“There is no itching powder in any of my garments,” Cas says, perplexed.

“Then why are you so damn fidgety?” Dean asks.

He reaches the main menu screen and is about to press play when Cas blurts out, “I think that I need to get a job.”

Dean leans forward to look at him. “Dude, the hell?”

“A job,” Cas repeats, like Dean just didn’t hear him right the first time. “You’ve gone back to work, and while your income is providing for the house, I’m sure you wish to spend it on other things besides one fallen angel and one pseudo-adopted teenager. If I can get a job, then perhaps I can help.”

“And what kind of job are you thinking you’re gonna get?” Dean asks. “You don’t need a job, Cas. I have a job. And I make damn good money there, okay? And we’re fine. The house is fine. You don’t have to worry about shit like that.”

Exasperated, Cas tells him, “It’s human to worry about shit like that.”

“So let the human handle it,” Dean says gruffly.

“Dean, I’m human now, too.”

This whole day has been too surreal for Dean to wrap his fucking head around. He’s pretty sure he’s just gaping at Cas with his mouth wide open, but in all honesty Dean’s not sure what the fuck he’s supposed to say. How can he explain that the idea of Cas getting a job scares the living fuck out of him when he doesn’t even know why it does himself?

“So get a damn hobby,” Dean mutters finally, and he starts the movie.

Cas crosses his arms, clearly put out, and Dean resists the childish urge to roll his eyes. Cas doesn’t get it. And Dean doesn’t know how to explain that Cas shouldn’t  _ want  _ a job. It’s damn hard enough being a human without the added stress of working for a living.

Christ. Dean makes it sound like Cas has gotta be some damn housewife stuck at home all day. That thought makes him feel like shit, so as the movie starts to really play, he mutters, “If you seriously want a job, we can look for something. But I think you should adjust to some shit here first, okay? Settle in. Bond with Claire. Find a hobby. Then we’ll look for friggin’ jobs.”

“I used to be an Angel of the Lord, Dean,” Cas says, exasperated. “What sort of hobbies do you suggest I pick up?”

“Jesus,” Dean groans. “I don’t know! That’s why they’re your hobbies! Knit. Paint. Learn how to play the damn piano. Make stained glass windows, geez. The world is your oyster.”

That gets a chuckle out of Cas, even though Dean’s not entirely sure that Cas understands the expression. It makes him feel good anyway. It’s been a hell of a day, but he came home to this, and it ain’t half bad.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u see me cranking out chapters like this is all i have to live for mind ur business i have become absolutely unhinged and i cannot be stopped
> 
> thank u to SABI AND CAIT for the hand holding as always and the ego-stroking when i needed convincing that i am in fact a writer, and a special thank u to jd who let me babble nonsensically over audio messages to them today for twenty minutes before i figured out what was holding me back with this chapter and was able to fix it. i would be a mess without y'all MAJOR XOXO

Dean tears into the ugly linoleum in the kitchen and finds out he’s got friggin _hardwood_ under there, and it turns the otherwise godawful task into something he’s actually excited about. Cas doesn’t really understand the pep it puts in Dean’s step, but he seems to like the fact that Dean is whistling cheerfully as he works.

“You complained about the task before you started,” Cas comments, when Dean points this out. Cas has planted his happy ass in a folding chair in the part of the dining room that Dean hasn’t touched yet. He’s got an open book in his hands, but he hasn’t really been reading it. Dean knows he’s been on the same page for twenty minutes.

“Yeah, because no one likes tearing up fuckin’ flooring,” Dean tells him. “But now that I know I got real, quality hardwood?” He hums, low and pleased. “Don’t matter if this is the most annoying thing in the world. Finding this under here, means I don’t have to spend money on some knock-off shit to replace the linoleum. Never thought I’d be grateful to the stupid fucks that covered their nice hardwood floors with friggin’ _plastic._ ”

Cas makes an acknowledging sound, nodding his head like he gets it now, and Dean ducks his head to hide his smirk. It’s obvious that Cas doesn’t have a damn clue what Dean’s talking about, but he thinks that Cas is just content to sit and listen to Dean babble about whatever the fuck he wants to. Dean’s pretty sure they did this before, on some level, but they’ve been doing this a lot more recently. Especially after Dean told Cas to stop being an idiot and feeling guilty about following him around. It feels a bit different in a way Dean hasn’t really compartmentalized yet, either. He tells himself it’s just because this time it’s doing normal people shit instead of hunter’s shit. So, now, they’ll just sit with one another. Sometimes it’s quiet. Other times, Cas sits there patient and attentive as Dean explains whatever he’s doing.

It’s good for Claire, too. She was wary of it at first. Walking into a room and finding them both sitting there, quiet. Dean is pretty sure it made her feel like she was in trouble. She’s gotten more used to it, though, obviously, because as she stumbles into kitchen now and notices them shooting the shit, she just rolls her eyes and mutters something under her breath.

But it _is_ good for her. Dean’s noticed that sometimes she’ll sit with them, too. And ain’t that the damnedest thing.

“You wanna help tear this shit up?” Dean asks, grinning when she scowls.

“Yeah, because this looks like _so_ much fun,” she mutters sarcastically. She yanks open the fridge, scowling as she looks inside, then whips back around to glare sharply at Dean. Accusingly, she tells him, “We’re out of soda.”

Mildly, Cas says, “Dean doesn’t drink the soda, Claire.”

“Well, he _buys_ it,” Claire shoots back.

Dean tears free another piece of linoleum and tosses it in the vague direction of the big ass garbage can that’s by Cas’s chair. Cas sighs and picks it up when Dean misses. “Grocery day isn’t until tomorrow, you’ll have to wait.”

“God,” Claire complains, but instead of stomping out of the kitchen like Dean expects, she surprises him and takes the other folding chair from where it had been leaning against the wall, setting it up and plopping into a spot next to Cas. Hell, even _Cas_ looks a little surprised by it. Dean wants to tell him to cool it with the puppy-dog eyes or Claire’s gonna get annoyed and leave, but he doesn’t really have the heart to piss on all their decent moods.

Instead, he just shoots them both a half-hearted glare they all know he doesn’t mean and mutters, “You do realize you’re gonna have to move it when I’m done in the kitchen and need to tear up that shit in there, right?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Cas says, placating, and he turns the page of his book.

“Why are you tearing it up?” Claire asks.

She does that a lot. Asks questions. And if Dean is being honest, he friggin’ loves it when she does. It’s awesome to get to explain something that makes sense to him on a level that not a lot of shit does, but even better than that is that Claire actually gives a shit. She takes whatever information Dean tosses her way and she stores it. Sometimes he sees her lingering as he works, shuffling her weight back and forth from foot to foot, and he knows she’s trying to build up the nerve to ask him if he needs any help. He’s seen nearly that same exact expression on Sam’s face, twenty years ago, when they were just kids. Still, she hasn’t asked yet. It surprises Dean that he hopes she does.

“Hardwood under here,” Dean says, knocking on the floor. “The linoleum, it’s cheap shit. And it’s ugly as fuck. Once I get this all pulled up, I’ll just buff the hardwood and put a new stain down and the floors will be good as new.”

Claire nods. “Cool.”

“Oh, Claire, is your homework done?” Cas asks.

She looks at him incredulously. “It’s the second week of school.”

“Is there some law that states schools can’t assign homework until they have been in session for fifteen days?” Cas prods. The sad thing is, Dean thinks he might be serious, which makes this whole thing a hell of a lot funnier.

“No,” Claire says, scowling.

Dean throws another piece of flooring and grins when this one makes it into the trashcan. He gives himself a moment to feel childishly proud. “You know, I seem to remember having a decent amount of homework my freshman year of high school.”

“You didn’t _go_ to high school!” Claire protests, exasperated.

“I didn’t _graduate_ high school,” Dean corrects. “But I definitely went, up ‘til my senior year. Which is why you’re sure as hell gonna listen to me now when I tell you to friggin’ do it. I’m serious, kid, it’s a hell of a lot easier to put your ass through it the first time around than to struggle through a GED program.”

Claire scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You sound like a guidance counselor.”

“Ain’t that a terrifying thought,” Dean mutters.

With a deep sigh, Cas says, “Claire. Homework. Now. You can bring it down here and sit with us if you would like.”

“You guys are _so_ annoying.”

“There are worse things in the world than people caring about you, kid,” Dean tells her. He glances up at her as an idea starts to form. “Hey, if you get all your homework done before the weekend, you can help me tear the cabinets down. If you want.”

This, at least, brightens Claire up the way Dean had hoped it would. He’s not sure if it’s an interest in carpentry or a teenage desire to destroy things that makes Claire so intrigued by the renovation process, but he ain’t gonna question it. She says, “Really?” and grins from ear to ear when Dean nods his head in confirmation.

It should be a good moment. It _is_ a good moment. So after Claire sprints up the stairs to grab her backpack and Dean glances back at Cas, he’s taken aback by the frown on Cas’s face. It takes a long moment for Cas to look away from the spot where Claire just was and to catch Dean’s raised eyes.

“Someone piss in your Cheerios?” he asks.

“I didn’t have Cheerios for breakfast this morning,” Cas tells him, and his head tilts in that dorky way it does when something goes over his head. “You made us french toast.”

“Yeah, knucklehead, I remember that,” Dean sighs. “I just meant. What’s with the sour look on your face?”

Cas reaches up and touches the corner of his mouth like he doesn’t know what it might be doing.

Dean huffs around a laugh and sits back, deciding now’s as fine a time as any to take a little break. He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the bottom of his shirt before refocusing on Cas and the problem at hand. “Wanna tell me what you’re thinking about, or should I just start throwing wild guesses out there for why you might be in a bad mood?”

“I’m not in a bad mood,” Cas says, surprised, but there’s a pink flush on his face that wasn’t there before, and it tells Dean a different story. 

“Dude, are you jealous?” he asks, and Cas’s gaze snaps to him sharply. “You can help take cabinets down too, you know. I won’t even make you show me your homework to prove it’s done before I let you take a swing.”

Dean expects Cas to lighten up at this, but for whatever reason it just causes the scowl on Cas’s mouth to deepen rather quickly, and he’s a bit startled when Cas says shortly, “I don’t care about kitchen cabinets, Dean,” before standing swiftly from his chair and leaving the room.

“What the fuck,” Dean says, to the empty room. It doesn’t give him an answer back.

Cas doesn’t come back for a while, not even when Claire comes back downstairs to do her homework at the kitchen table so she can still see what Dean’s doing as he works. Dean tries not to get too huffy-puffy about it. If Cas wants to throw an ex-angelic temper tantrum, that’s his business, and Dean’s got his own shit to do.

He finishes the kitchen and gets started on the dining room just to get it over with. At this rate, he thinks he could have all the linoleum pulled up before the afternoon. Dean runs through the other shit he wanted to get through today, wondering if he has enough time to run to the hardware store and get a stain for the floor. There’s a creak in the middle of the kitchen that he wants to fix, but he’ll have to get under the house for that and he’s a little bit nervous to see what he’ll find under there.

“Dean,” Claire says timidly, and it pulls him out of his own mental to-do list. His gaze snaps up to her. Her face is pink and embarrassed. But there’s frustration in her voice, too, which makes sense as soon as she quietly asks, “Do you know anything about algebra?”

That’s how Cas finds them, later, when he finally returns from wherever he’d went to hide out. Sitting together at the kitchen table solving equations. If he’s surprised to see Dean helping Claire with homework, he keeps it to himself.

Cas doesn’t say anything to either of them as he comes into the kitchen, so Dean doesn’t say anything, either. It’s not like he _has_ to speak to the guy every time they’re in the same vicinity. If Cas wants to act like a toddler, Dean’ll let him. No one holds a grudge like Cas.

Except, Cas surprises him by placing plates in front of him and Claire about five minutes later, full of sandwiches and chips. He still doesn’t say anything, but Cas drops a hand on Claire’s shoulder as he walks back to the counter to grab his own plate, and Claire pushes her homework aside to dig in.

Dean watches as Cas settles into his own chair at the table. Wondering if he’ll get Bitchy Cas if he speaks up now. Tentatively, he says, “Thanks for lunch.”

“It was no problem,” Cas says, shrugging. He catches Dean’s gaze, like this one look alone will convey that they’re fine, before looking back to Claire. “We’ll need to add chips to the grocery list, if you want more of that kind. We’re almost out.”

Claire turns to Dean, equal parts glaring and hopeful and one hundred percent fourteen-year-old, and what’s Dean supposed to say to that? No? He’s not a monster. He sighs and picks up his own damn sandwich, muttering, “Fine, chips are on the list, you bloodsuckers.”

“Are you accompanying us to the grocery store tomorrow?” Cas asks Claire, and it’s really nothing out of the ordinary since it’s something Cas has asked nearly every time they go shopping, except this time it sends a jolt through Dean that he can feel all the way down to his toes. He pauses, sandwich halfway to his mouth, taken aback by it.

Something about the ease with which Cas said it, maybe. Like it really is _nothing_ out of the ordinary. Just a normal thing you ask your family on a Saturday at lunch when everyone is home and you have shit to get done. And that’s got to be what’s throwing Dean off so bad, because it _is_ a normal thing for them, now.

Dean doesn’t go grocery shopping by himself anymore.

Hell, Claire or Cas or both of them almost always go with him to the damn hardware store when he goes. The only time he really leaves the house alone is when he goes for work, and ain’t that a terrifying thought? They’ve slipped with ease into their little routine. Fights with Claire in the morning to wake her up in time for school, making sure Cas is up to drop her off so Dean can go to work, coming home and finding them there waiting for him. Spending weekends remodeling or running errands or looking up fucking _farmer’s markets_ because Cas likes to go. Grocery shopping Sunday mornings, then lazy movies Sunday afternoon, and it doesn’t matter if all of them are there or not, someone always puts one on.

_This_ is what Dean had been most afraid of, every time he thought of settling down. The idea of a routine and a life that didn’t change from day to day. He thought he was better suited for the adventure, for the drive, for a different city every week and nothing attached to his name. But as much as he’s used to this now, there’s nothing mundane about this life. It’s not the suffocating routine he’d been so goddamn afraid of for so many years. Maybe it’s Claire. Maybe it’s Cas. Fuck, it could be Colorado for all Dean knows.

Whatever it is, it’s his. And it’s the simple question, _will we all be grocery shopping tomorrow?,_ and it’s the secret, unsuspected hope for them both to say yes that bursts through his chest.

“Dean?” Cas says, and it pulls Dean right out of whatever fucking trip he just took himself on. Cas has got this expectant look on his face, though, and Dean realizes probably a second too late that Cas most likely asked him a question. “What do you think?”

He blinks slowly. “About what?”

“Claire asked if she comes with us tomorrow, if we could drop her off at the movie theater,” Cas explains, and it’s a little bit pathetic that he’s not even surprised by Dean’s apparent brain reboot. “She says that a few of her friends will be getting together in the afternoon.”

“Friends?” Dean repeats. He turns in his chair, facing Claire head on. “You made friends?”

Immediately defensive, Claire snaps back, “Yes. Is that so surprising?”

“I’m not saying it’s a damn surprise, I’m saying good for you, kid!” Dean bursts out. He claps a hand on Claire’s shoulder, feeling a pride in his chest that he doesn’t really understand. “You’re adjusting! You’re making friends! Guess we aren’t screwing you up so bad after all, huh?”

“You are _so_ lame,” she complains, shrugging his hand off her shoulder. “Everyone has friends, Dean. Everyone except you two.”

Cas sounds almost affronted when he chimes in, “Dean is my friend,” and the poor dude looks even more confused by the eye roll Claire tosses his way.

“That so does not count,” she tells him.

“How does it not count?” Cas presses.

Cas is a few steps behind understanding Claire on a good day, not well-versed enough in teenage-speak or humanity to know when Claire is being a shit on purpose or when she’s being genuine. And it’s complicated with Claire, who is so hot and cold with Cas in a way that even makes Dean’s head spin. Dean meant it, when he said Claire was adjusting, but it’s an adjustment for Cas, too. So before Claire can say anything else, Dean tells Cas, “We ain’t exactly typical friends, Cas.”

Hell, that doesn’t help. Cas looks even more taken aback by that. So Dean sighs and continues, “Most hunters don’t get to have typical friends. Ain’t in the cards when you’re in the business. But we’re out of the business now, so. We’re semi-typical.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees. The look of recognition dawns slowly over his expression. The quickest lesson Cas has ever learned is making sure Claire knows she’s the priority. “We are attempting to lead normal lives here.”

“Out of the family business,” Dean says, and he pretends his entire body doesn’t hurt as he says it.

“It’s good that you’re making friends, Claire,” Cas tells her, finally. Claire’s gaze snaps to him in surprise. “That’s an important part of adolescence and maturity. The parenting books say that I should encourage this, but ensure that you don’t end up with the ‘wrong crowd’.”

Fuck. _Fuck._ Dean knows the situation is headed south before Cas even finishes talking, but he doesn’t even get a chance to try and diffuse it before Claire says, “You have parenting books?”

“Cas,” Dean tries to intervene.

“Yes,” Cas answers, a little bit proud and a little bit confused. Dean wants to smack his head against the table. “I read them frequently. It helps me understand what I can do to be a better parent to you.”

Time to switch friggin’ gear. Dean turns sharply in his seat, putting a hand on Claire’s shoulder, and warns, “Claire, don’t.”

But Claire is just a kid, and she’s not even _his_ kid, so when she yanks her arm free of her grip and stands up on shaky legs, he has to let her. She sounds younger than she is with a tremble in her voice as she whispers, “You aren’t my parent, Castiel.”

Cas’s face goes through a series of complicated emotions that makes Dean’s heart feel like it’s in his throat. “I know that,” Cas says carefully. “And I’m sorry that I’m not who you prayed for. But you are my responsibility. And I want to do right for you.”

“So you heard my prayers?” Claire asks. There are tears in her eyes and Dean can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

It takes Cas a long time to admit, “I did.”

“Of course you did,” she mutters. “And you just—no, whatever. Screw this.”

“Claire,” Cas says, hurt, but when he stands to stop her from leaving the kitchen and going up to her room, Dean stands too, putting a hand on his chest to hold him in place. Neither of them move until they hear her door close. It’s not even a slam, but for some reason that makes Cas flinch even harder.

“Cas, look at me,” Dean says softly.

Cas keeps his eyes on the stairs. Dean was never the mind reader between the two of them, but he can tells there’s a lot happening up there just by the way Cas says, “I’ve hurt her.”

“Once,” Dean tells him. Tries to make his voice firm so Cas can get it through his thick fucking skull but not mean enough for Cas to just dismiss it. When Cas still won’t look at him, Dean reaches up and presses against Cas’s jaw to turn his face. “A long time ago. And it wasn’t just you. That was. Shit, man, that was a combination of you and her dad and her mom and the apocalypse and about fifty other things. She doesn’t get that because she’s a kid, and that’s fine, but you need to get it, okay? You hurt her once, but you’re here now. You’re trying now. She just needs, like. A few minutes to get used to it.”

“I have spent twenty-eight thousand, six hundred and ninety three minutes with her,” Cas says.

“It’s an expression, Cas—”

“I know it’s an expression,” Cas interrupts. He still looks at Dean like he can see right down into his soul. Even as a human, it makes the hairs on Dean’s arm rise. “And I understand that she needs time. But she was right, Dean. I heard her prayers. All of them, right up until I died. And I never did a thing about it.”

Dean has nothing to say. Nothing to offer that sounds well-adjusted and good and _right._ He wants to tell Cas it’s fine, this is the life, that Claire will understand it when she starts hunting on her own because that’s what he did, that’s how he learned, but he _can’t._ He won’t. Habit tells him that he’s got to train her how to fight but it’s instinct that pulls him back every time. And it’s instinct that makes him stop now, hesitant, to make sure he says the right thing.

“I fear I might need to throw my parenting books out,” Cas says, and he quirks a smile. It makes Dean laugh.

“Maybe,” Dean agrees. “Then again, I’ve never been a parent myself. They might have better wisdom than I do.”

It could end there. It should, most likely. Dean drops his arm and Cas picks up the plates off the table and cleans up lunch. Dean puts Claire’s homework back in her backpack. He’s debating whether or not he should take it up to her when Cas finally says, “That’s not true, you know.”

“What?”

“That you were never a parent,” Cas elaborates. “You raised Sam. I know you don’t see it that way, but Heaven did. I did.”

Dean looks at him in surprise. “I didn’t raise Sam.”

“I know you see it that way,” Cas says. He’s not even looking at Dean, focusing instead on the plates he’s rinsing off in the sink. Dean’s head is spinning. “And that’s fine. You don’t have to recognize it yourself for me to see that in you.”

It’s a hell of a detour. Dean’s not exactly sure how they went from trying to comfort Cas to the tables turning onto him. He blinks, realizes belatedly that his mouth is open in surprise, and snaps his jaw shut with an audible sound. Cas is putting the plates away when Dean finally mutters out, “You’re something else, Cas, you know that?”

“Yes,” Cas says, and there’s almost a smile on his face. Could be a smile if Cas didn’t seem so damn sad. “I’m starting to piece that together.”

Dean runs his ass up the stairs before he can do something stupid like go hug Cas or whatever, feeling like his nerve endings have been exposed to the air. His stomach is clenching in the way it always does when Sam is brought up. At least this time he doesn’t feel like he’s gonna be sick. Still, he hesitates when he reaches the top of the stairs. He glances down at Claire’s backpack that’s still in his hands.

“What the hell,” he mutters to himself. “You’ve already showed some emotion today. Why not go for the home run?”

He knocks quietly on Claire’s door. All he can hear inside is her music playing. Dean waits until the music turns down just a bit, and Claire tentatively sighs out, “Come in.”

She’s sitting on her bed, knees to her chest, fiddling with the end of a braid. Some new style she’s been doing every day ever since she started high school. Dean thinks it looks pretty cool, but he knows enough about being a kid that he’s elected to keep that thought to himself.

“You left your backpack downstairs,” he tells her, and he sets it down at the foot of her bed.

“Sorry,” Claire mutters.

Dean sighs. He feels about a thousand years older than he is as he debates how to handle this. When the hell did this become is life? Scolding a teenager for her behavior. Christ, he’s old. “Probably not me you owe the apology to.”

Claire’s scowl deepens. “I don’t want to apologize to him.”

“I’m not saying it has to be today,” Dean says easily. Claire looks at him in surprise. “Look, kid. Cas is my best friend. But he’s a weird, kind of intense guy. And he’s only been human for a few months. So if you wanna have beef with him, I can’t really fault you for that. But I want you to take it to heart when I tell you that Cas? He’s friggin’ trying. I mean, seriously. The vegetables he makes you eat? Taking you to school each day? Nagging you to do your homework and standing up for you when you want to hang out with friends? He’s on your side, dude.”

She picks at the nail polish on her fingernails and bites her lip. “I prayed for my dad,” Claire tells him.

“And instead you got us,” Dean summarizes. “Not exactly what you wished for.”

It’s a long moment before she finally responds to that. Claire drops her gaze and mumbles, “It hasn’t been all bad.”

Dean grins. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Shut up,” Claire says. “It hasn’t been all bad. Okay?”

It’s a start. Or, if it isn’t, it sure as hell feels like one anyway. Dean reaches forward and puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. He says, “Growing up ain’t easy even when your life is completely normal. Wish I could tell you different. But Cas, he’s trying, okay? You wanna know who buys parenting books? People who give a fuck. And Cas cares, a lot. You’ll see that more when you get to know him better.”

Claire nods slowly. An easy thing. Dean takes it as his cue to leave, and starts walking back towards the door. He pauses when Claire tells him, “And you.”

Turning back on his heel, Dean raises an eyebrow. “And me, what?”

“You care,” Claire elaborates. There’s a teasing grin on her face. Dean’s glad to see it. “You take care of me just as much as Castiel does.”

“I do not,” Dean argues.

She raises an eyebrow back at him, and for one terrifying, exhilarating moment, Dean sees a mirror image of himself at that age. “Really? So pimping out my room like this, that was just because you were secretly hoping one of the bedrooms in your house would look like a teenage girl’s?”

“You saying you don’t want to keep this shit?” Dean asks, but it’s an empty threat and they both know it.

“Getting me enrolled in school, telling me to sign up for extracurriculars, helping me with my homework…” Claire continues. She’s on a roll now, grinning from ear to ear, and it’s a damn nice moment. Dean wishes Cas were here to see it, too.

“That’s just to get you out of the house,” Dean lies.

Claire has a light, small laugh. She ducks her head to hide it, like it surprises her, too.

“Finish your homework, Claire,” Dean tells her, and when he closes the door behind him, he’s pretty sure he can still hear her laughing.

* * *

Theresa gives him a random Wednesday off, which would be awesome if Dean had anything to do besides go home and work on the remodel, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he thanks her and drives his sorry ass back home. Dean parks his work truck in the garage and sits there for a moment. Claire’s at school. The Impala is still gone, which means Cas is out somewhere.

It’s a strange thought. Cas not being here. Dean’s not sure why it makes him feel so weird.

He doesn’t mind Cas driving Baby. Hell, that had been the biggest surprise out of everything, probaby, but it’s not like they had another choice. Dean has to drive the truck to work, and Cas has to take Claire to school. But Cas is an excellent driver. Better than Sam ever was. Dean’s been thinking about saving up to get Cas a car of his own, but he doesn’t know where they’d put it, and it seems kind of silly to have three cars at a household where only two people drive.

Hell, it’s probably a bit silly to want to buy your best friend a car, too, but Dean knows better than to try and unpack that.

The house is quiet. He hates it. He has half the mind to go into Claire’s room just to turn on some music so it can seem like she’s here. Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket and debates whether or not he should text Cas.

“Fuck, Winchester, you’re lame as shit,” Dean tells himself. Is this really all he does? Work and come home to hang out with Cas and Claire?

He fixes himself lunch, and eats it sullenly at the table. Wonders what the hell there is to do around Bennett, Colorado, that won’t make him look like a loser or a drunk. After way too long of debating with himself and feeling embarrassed at his lack of friggin’ hobbies, Dean cleans up after himself then heads to his front lawn to do something there.

Painters are coming next week to fix the atrocity that is the peeling yellow shit on the exterior of the house. After one too many conversations with Pete, Dean had sucked it up and splurged a bit and hired someone else to do the painting for him. Last weekend, he fixed the deck. Got rid of the rickety planks that made it sketchy to walk on and fixed the railing. That’ll get painted, too. Then it’ll be a picture perfect spot for something totally corny like a porch swing. Cas would like that, Dean thinks. Somewhere to sit and watch the stars.

Dean’s leaning against the railing, staring out at the empty street absently, when a familiar roar pulls him back to himself. He looks up just in time to see the Impala roll slowly down the road, before parking perfectly in her spot at the edge of the driveway.

Cas is surprised to see him, to say the least. It’s kind of thrilling to see the way his eyes widen and his mouth crawls into a smile. “You’re home very early,” Cas observes.

“Theresa gave me the day off,” Dean tells him. He rocks back on his heels as Cas closes and locks the Impala before meeting him on the deck. “It was slow as shit at the shop. I think I was annoying her with my singing.”

“Clearly she hasn’t heard your shower renditions, then,” Cas says dryly. He pushes the front door open as Dean huffs indignantly.

It’s either a testament to how bored he’s been or some kind of commentary on how Dean’s life basically revolves around the people who live with him, but he follows Cas back into the house like an eager dog and doesn’t even feel ashamed for it. “Where you been?”

“I dropped Claire off at school,” Cas says. He hangs his coat up in the closet. The weather ain’t terrible, for September, but Dean thinks Cas likes the familiarity of a coat no matter what. “Then I spoke with her counselor, for a moment. She’s doing great, by the way. Her counselor is proud of how Claire’s doing.”

“I didn’t know there was a meeting, I would have come,” Dean tells him.

Cas waves him off. “It wasn’t scheduled, I just went in. I was curious. Still trying to figure out how everything works. I didn’t stay there very long, though. We spoke briefly then I left. I spent some time working on a project of mine.”

“Project?” Dean repeats, pestering. He follows Cas into the kitchen. “What project?”

“Something I’m working on.” Cas says it like he’s explaining something to a little kid. Dean knows he’s doing it just to be a little shit.

When Cas opens the fridge, Dean reminds him, “There’s leftover fried rice, if you want to heat that up.”

“Thank you.”

Dean focuses back on what really matters. “You gonna tell me what you’re working on? You’ve never even mentioned you had a project. What does that even mean?”

“You must be very bored,” Cas muses.

And it’s true, honestly, because Dean is. He has been since he got home and sat with twiddling thumbs waiting for someone else to get here. But it stings, too. The idea that Cas thinks Dean would only care about shit like this if he had nothing better to do. Dean knows he’s not exactly the prime example of a great friend, but. Still. He’s pretty sure the guy deserves better than that.

“Even if I wasn’t bored, I’d still want to know,” Dean says finally, just as Cas is pulling his bowl back out at the microwave. They sit down at the table together. “I know I’m an asshole, and I’m not gonna promise I won’t give you shit for whatever, because that’s just what I do, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know what you’re up to, Cas.”

“A rare moment of sincerity from Dean Winchester,” Cas says, and for a moment Dean’s viscerally reminded that this guy used to be an angel. That this guy used to level entire cities with a swipe of his hand. Heaven’s greatest warrior, sitting at Dean’s table with a piece of rice stuck to his chin. “Are you choking on it?”

“I take it back, you’re the asshole,” Dean mutters. “Fuck you and your project. Jerk.”

Cas smiles. “You told me to get a hobby.”

“Oh my god,” Dean whines. “You’re really not gonna tell me?”

“You can be surprised by something, Dean, just once in your life. It won’t kill you.”

Dean could argue that surprises very well may kill you, but the point seems kind of redundant. “Wait, actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How are you doing?”

Cas blinks as he eats another bite of his fried rice. “I’m doing fine, today,” Cas says slowly. “Didn’t we already go over this?”

“I mean with being human, dumbass,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “I haven’t checked. We’ve been really focused on making sure Claire’s adjusting, but, like. You’re adjusting too, you know? Flightless bird turned human. How are you doing with all that?”

It’s probably a hard question for Cas to answer. Dean should have thought about that before springing it on the guy in the middle of his lunch. Cas pushes the food around his bowl for a few moments, considering, and Dean lets him. There ain’t much else he can do now, anyway. “I am adjusting,” Cas says finally. “It’s not easy. I still have a lot of questions. I spend many days very easily overwhelmed by the immensity of what I feel, and other days feeling completely void. It is a stark contrast to try and balance in such a small-feeling capacity.”

“Yeah, that’s,” Dean says, and he stops when a huff of laughter bursts out of him. He shakes his head. “Sorry, dude. That’s just how it feels to be human, I think.”

Cas sighs. “I dislike the frequent need to urinate. I have come to loathe my alarm clock. I would spend the whole day in the shower, except for I don’t like the way it makes my fingers feel prunish. I feel hunger at inconvenient times, and cooking bores me to death. But I also love reading books. I enjoy eating food, and enjoying the taste not as individual molecules but as the sum of the whole thing. I could watch the sun rise and set every day. I enjoy listening to Claire’s music, and I like the burn in my muscles after I help you with your remodeling.”

He stops. Trails off. Cas’s eyes are distant and glazed, but he’s not done. Dean knows enough about him to know that much, so he waits. Gives Cas a minute to get to what he really needs to say.

“I feel happiness, being here,” Cas continues slowly. “I feel relieved that we’re all safe. I feel annoyance at you, in the mornings when you tell me to wake up because I slept through my alarm. I feel fondness when Claire smiles or when she allows me to share her laughter. I feel anxiety when I think about her, alone at school, all day. And these are all miraculous things for me. I’m trying to understand them all. Even so, there are some things I wish I didn’t know. Hurt, when Claire won’t trust me. Frustration that I never seem to do anything right the first time. Envy, that it’s so easy for _you_ to be human. Sadness at all that we’ve lost.”

Silence settles heavy between them. Cas slowly eats another bite of rice, and Dean, still, stays quiet.

“Angels really only dealt with things in absolutes,” he finally murmurs. “Black or white. Good or evil. Loyalty or disobedience. When I first rebelled, I had only dipped a toe into the spectrum of complexities humanity holds.” Cas grins, wry and tired and everything all at once. “I had no idea what it was like to carry all these multitudes inside of me all at once.”

“It’s not easy,” Dean agrees, breaking his silence with a tentative olive branch. Not that he and Cas need it, he thinks. No, it’s just for Cas. Something for him to hold onto.

“It’s like I can never breathe,” Cas states. “I feel like…”

Dean huffs at his own joke before he even says it. Grinning, he finishes, “You’ve been chained to a comet?”

It works. Cas laughs, too. A small thing. It feels like a million bucks, anyway. “Emotionally, I suppose,” he allows. “I’ll get the hang of it eventually. Though I’m certain I’ll continue to surprise myself by just how much I can feel in one sitting.”

“And how are you feeling now?” Dean asks, with a raised eyebrow.

Deadpan, Cas says, “Hungry.”

He’s smirking even as Dean makes an affronted noise, throwing up his hands. “Fine, fine, I can take a hint. I’ll shut my pie hole until you’re done eating. Just.” And here’s the kicker. Dean hesitates. He freakin’ _pauses,_ and he doesn’t have a damn clue what he meant to say. He blinks, scrambling, before the words come tumbling out of him, “I know we’re both trying to make sure Claire’s good, but I can take care of more than one person at a time. So. If you need anything.”

“You’ll be the first person I tell,” Cas promises. Dean’s face feels like it’s on fire.

“Yeah. Well. Whatever, don’t make it a thing. Okay?”

Cas is still smiling. Bastard. “Okay.”

“Christ,” Dean mutters. He pushes himself out of his chair and swears under his breath when his foot gets caught under the table. “Why did I want to hang out with you. Asshole. Eat your damn rice. I’m gonna. I don’t know.”

“Oh, Dean,” Cas says, before Dean can make his sweet escape to friggin’ freedom anywhere away from the display of vulnerability he just dumped onto Cas’s plate. Dean groans and turns back around, anyway. “I had a few ideas for the house. Nothing like your remodels, just. Wardings we can put up. Protection. I know we’re out of the life, but.”

“That doesn’t mean they won’t come knocking,” Dean finishes. He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. Obviously I don’t want the house to look like something from an occult movie, but.”

Cas nods as he eats. Dean feels bad for a second, _again,_ that he’s struck up conversation with the guy as he’s just sitting and trying to enjoy a friggin’ meal. Still, it was Cas who brought this up, not Dean, so he thinks fuck it.

They relay ideas back and forth. Hidden sigils in paintings and on the interiors of closet doors. Devil’s Traps under the rugs at all the doors. Dean shoots down Cas’s suggestion for salt lines at the windows, nervous about damn bugs, and instead they settle on iron frames in the windows and at the doors and debate on whether or not a small carved Devil’s Trap would work on a window sill.

Cas finishes his lunch. They move from the kitchen to the living room, and Dean turns on some shitty daytime soap and sketches out house plans while Cas folds laundry. God, if anyone from before could see him now. What a picture this would make.

Still. It’s nice. They get shit done.Cas finishes the laundry, and pulls meat out of the freezer for dinner, and does the dishes, and Dean watches the tv show he’s definitely _not_ intrigued by and figures out that, financially and physically, all of his renovations will be done by January. It’s a good thought.

“Do you want to go with me to pick Claire up?” Cas asks, and Dean looks up in surprise. He hadn’t realized so much time had passed.

He agrees, because it’s not like he has anything else to do, and if he’s being honest, he’d probably still go, anyway, and Cas rolls his eyes when Dean dramatically pulls himself off the couch. “You could go into theatrics, with a performance like that.”

“Your sarcasm is getting far too advanced,” Dean mutters.

Dean drives. He always drives, if it’s him and Cas in the Impala. Habit, probably. Or comfort. Either way, Cas doesn’t seem to mind. Dean’s only been to the high school once, so he relies on Cas directing them as they go.

He’s humming along absentmindedly to the radio when Cas reaches over suddenly and turns it down. Cas’s hands drop back to his lap. It’s another moment before he says, “Thank you, Dean, for our conversation earlier.”

“What?” Dean asks. “You mean about you being human?”

Cas nods. “Yes. I didn’t realize how much I had thought about it until I had a moment to put it into words. It was… educational, to voice it. To give it a name.”

“Cas, you know you don’t have to, like, wait for me to ask, right?” Dean says. He taps his fingers anxiously against the steering wheel. “Like, if something’s going on, you can just. I don’t know. Come tell me about it.”

“I believe it was you who vehemently insisted that we avoid chick flick moments,” Cas reminds him, and he does a shitty impression of Dean at the end.

Dean laughs anyway. “Yeah, well. Then I saved the world. Twice. I think I’m allowed some leeway with shit like emotions now.”

“You know, we’ve spoken of how Claire has adjusted and how I have adjusted,” Cas muses, “but it may be worth it to consider how well you’re doing too, Dean. You left the only life you’ve ever known. You’ve built something for yourself, here. You’re fulfilling a promise to your brother. And you’re doing it all while keeping two dysfunctional humans from homelessness. That’s a very impressive feat.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Dean groans. “Shut up, man. No. This ain’t about me.”

“Your accomplishments deserve recognition too, Dean.”

This makes Dean roll his eyes. Cas points to a left turn, and Dean flips the blinker and slides into the turn lane. “Yeah, well. When I accomplish something that means something, I’ll let you know.”

Cas’s hand drops on Dean’s wrist suddenly, and it surprises Dean so bad he freezes and turns to look at Cas with wide eyes. Belatedly, he’s glad his foot is on the damn brake. Cas looks at him intently, a far too serious look for a conversation they’re having in the middle of the day, and says, “I wish you wouldn’t make yourself so small, Dean. You’ve got a big heart. You carry large successes. The world failing to thank you does not mean that what you do for it and on it is meaningless.”

“Okay, drama queen, no more soap operas for you,” Dean announces. Cas drops his wrist, and Dean makes the damn turn they’ve been sitting at for far too long. “I don’t need celebrations for my shit. I don’t need rewards. I’m doing it because that’s what I’m here for. Way it always goes.”

“That doesn’t make it any less pertinent,” Cas says calmly. “Turn right here, and join that line, she’ll come to us.”

“Ugh, you have to park in line?” Dean complains. “Pick-up duty is so friggin’ lame.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “And you wonder why Claire calls everything lame. I wouldn’t suppose it has anything to do with her spending too much time around her.”

“Dude, I’ve been telling you I’m a bad influence. Not my fault if you missed that memo.”

“You’re the best role model Claire could possibly ask for,” Cas says seriously, and just like that they’re back in that same damn place that makes Dean feel like he can’t breathe. Cas looks at him until Dean finally sighs and meets his eye. “I know you don’t like to hear it. And I wish it didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. But you’re a good man, Dean. I’m happy to remind you in case you ever forget.”

Dean breathes out slowly, a long exhale out of the corner of his mouth. He decides the argument he’d start by disagreeing now isn’t worth it. It’s been a good day. Dean wants it to stay that way. Resigned, he says, “Fine, whatever. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Great,” Cas says, and damn if the fucking smile that takes over his whole damn face doesn’t make Dean feel like maybe, just this once, giving in was the best call.

He turns the music back up. The line moves slowly. But Claire comes barrelling out of the school doors once they pull up, hair flying behind her, and it’s a pretty cool sight. She’s immediately suspicious when she reaches the car and sees both Dean and Cas there, and that’s pretty cool, too. Dean likes to keep people on their toes.

“What’s wrong?” she asks as she climbs into the backseat. Once she’s in, Dean peels out of the high school parking lot as fast as he can, ignoring the look of disdain Cas shoots his way. Damn, it feels good to put pedal to the metal after sitting in that damn line for so long.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Cas reassures her, and in the rearview mirror Dean can see it when her shoulders shrug and relax. “Dean was just given the day off today.”

“So you guys were hanging out?” Claire says. She sounds far too amused. “Aww. Cute.”

The little shit smirks at Dean when he glares at her in the mirror. Her expression turns positively gleeful, too, after Cas tells her, “Dean was very bored home alone. He was waiting for us to arrive.”

“Alright,” Dean says loudly, cutting them both off. “That’s enough of that.”

Cas and Claire share a traitorous, smug look that Dean pretends he can’t see. They need a moment like that, he thinks. He hopes Cas recognizes it for what it is.

It’s a nice ride home. Dean sings along to the radio, like he always does. Cas rolls down his window and enjoys the nice weather while they still can. And Claire sits in the back, rolling her eyes at the both of them, but Dean catches it when she starts to sing along too. There’s no way to point it out to Cas without being obvious, but. Dean glances at Cas in the passenger seat and sees the small, happy smile on his face and thinks that maybe Cas caught this one all on his own. 

Dean grins, too, and turns the radio up so Claire has a reason to sing louder.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no i did not write 9k in like one day that would be absolutely crazy why would u suggest that
> 
> WELL this chapter certainly holds a lot so GOOD LUCK... i hope it all makes sense. biggest hugs and kisses to sabi who was my biggest cheerleader while writing this i love u SO BAD
> 
> anyway ENJOY

September melts into October in a series of rainstorms that the locals tell Dean are out of the norm for Colorado. It sets him on edge, putting an ache in his knee that he only gets when he’s got a feeling something bad is coming. But he and Cas both scour the news and find no reasons to believe that the storms are any type of omen.

“Perhaps it isn’t a bad thing,” Cas murmurs, on a night that he and Dean sit at the window and watch the rain pour from the sky as though it’s got something to prove. “Maybe this is just… the cleansing of the new world.”

Dean isn’t sure how to respond to that without cracking his chest wide open, so he just tugs Cas into a hug that surprises them both. The way they hold to one another for longer than necessary is, like the rest of the world, washed away.

They finish the outside of the house on the days the rain lets up, and it turns out great. The new paint job makes it look like an entirely different home. Cas and Claire spend hours in the front yard pulling weeds together. Dean mows the lawn. Slowly, but surely, it starts to look like a yard. Slowly it starts to look like a home.

Cas wants a garden. It’s too late in the year for anything now, and Dean tells him that, but he writes it down anyway. Plots out a space where he can dig up sod and prepare the soil for whatever Cas wants next year, when spring comes. It doesn’t dawn on him, until much later, that the seasons will change as they always do but there’s no promise that Cas and Claire will stay with him, too. The thought of them moving out terrifies him. He chooses not to dwell on it.

The sound of Cas and Claire coming down the stairs pulls Dean out of his thoughts, and he closes the notebook where he’d been making a list for Cas’s garden before they make it to the kitchen. They’re up earlier than usual, much to Claire’s obvious disdain. Dean tells her good morning and smirks when she scowls at him in response.

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas says. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder as he passes.

“Yeah, morning,” Dean murmurs. “You guys ready to go? We’ll need to leave in, like, fifteen minutes or so.”

Claire sits down heavily in the chair next to Dean, setting down her bowl of cereal so haphazardly that some milk splashes over the side. She pointedly ignores the look Dean shoots her. “I still think it’s dumb you’re dropping me off so early.”

“Would you rather walk?” Dean asks, eyebrow raised.

“No,” she admits, and she digs into her cereal.

Cas pours himself a bowl, something more sugar than even Dean can stand, and sits down at the table far more carefully than Claire did. “Next time, we will arrange with a parent of one of your friends to see if they can take you.”

Claire turns to Dean, exasperated. “Next time?”

“Hey, they might like Cas today,” Dean says with a shrug. “Maybe he’ll get hired. Maybe we’ll have to drop you off this early  _ every  _ day.”

“This is some fresh layer of hell,” Claire mutters dramatically.

“No, it’s not,” Dean and Cas say, in sync. She rolls her eyes at the both of them. It makes Dean’s chest feel tight with something that might be pride. Excitement. Like he’s glad he’s basically become an embarrassing parent.

Dean drains the rest of his coffee, and Cas and Claire finish their breakfasts with a few minutes to spare, but still Dean ushers them out to the truck like they’re running out of time. Cas is coming with him to the shop today, to learn a few things about cars and to get out of the house before he drives himself mad. It’s something he and Dean have brought up a few times, but today will be the first time he’s actually come in. For Claire, it means being dropped off at school about thirty minutes earlier than normal.

Still, despite Claire’s dragging her feet, she still thanks Dean quietly as she gets out of the truck, and shoots them both a timid smile that Cas looks after even when she turns and walks inside.

“She’ll be okay alone for the morning, right?” Cas asks softly.

Dean pulls out of the parking lot. Cas stares out the window as he drives, clearly lost in his own thoughts. He doesn’t even notice as Dean glances at him. “It’s half an hour,” Dean says finally. “She’ll be fine. There are teachers there, anyway.”

Cas lets out a long exhale.

They open Woody’s, once they arrive. Theresa and Pete won’t come in until later, giving Dean some time to show Cas around and make sure he’s not gonna break anything. Theresa left a pair of coveralls for Cas on the desk, and he looks at them like he’s not sure what they are.

“Go change into that,” Dean instructs, pointing to a door that leads to the bathroom. “I’m gonna finish getting everything set up.”

“You aren’t wearing a uniform,” Cas says accusingly.

Dean rolls his eyes, telling him, “I change after I open up, you big baby. Go.”

They’ve got a few oil changes on the schedule today, as well as an old Honda that was brought in yesterday that needs new brakes. There’s a note on the computer saying someone might drop off a truck with a tire that keeps going flat. Dean narrates, as he goes through everything, and Cas listens attentively, watching over Dean’s shoulder as he points.

Cas looks bored as Dean answers phones, and Dean doesn’t fault him for that. Phones are the most boring part of the job. So while Dean waits for someone to get there to work the front, Cas pokes around, wrapping his fingers around car parts and flipping through magazines and staring in confusion at the fancy coffee maker on the counter.

At exactly nine, Theresa yanks the door open and hurries inside, grinning from ear to ear.

“Where’s your boy, Dean?” she demands, and Cas tentatively appears from behind the counter.

“I’m Castiel,” he says, extending a hand, but Theresa bypasses it entirely and tugs him into a hug that makes him huff out in surprise. Dean just smirks and ducks his head to hide it. “I’m guessing you are Theresa?”

She lets him go rather quickly, thumping him on the back in a way that makes his eyes go wide. “The one and only,” she says. “Deano here has been telling me he might bring you ‘round for weeks now. I was beginning to think you didn’t actually exist.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Why would I make up a grumpy recluse of a best friend and his teenage daughter? Why wouldn’t I make up something cool?”

“Hey,” Cas protests. “I am very cool.”

“Very,” Dean says, nodding seriously. Cas turns to glare at him, and Dean shoots him a thumbs up. “Hey, Ther, we were waiting for you to get in. There’s a few cars we can get started on, if you want to man up here for a while.”

Theresa pours herself a glass of coffee, blissfully unaware of the way that Cas watches her do so with curious eyes. “Yeah, kid, I think I’ll be able to handle the front desk of the business I’ve been managing just fine on my own for many years.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re very impressive,” Dean says. “Trust me, we all know that here. Can I take Cas back to have him break some shit with his hands now?”

Alarmed, Cas interrupts, “I thought we were fixing cars.”

“Oh, ain’t he just a doll,” Theresa sighs. “Get out of here, both of you. I can’t stand the sight of you lazing up my office anymore.”

Laughing, Dean tugs Cas into the garage.

They spend most of the morning out there. Dean shows Cas how to do an oil change and how to replace the filter, and sits back on the third one of the day to let Cas try it on his own. Someone comes in to replace their busted bumper, and Cas has a hell of a time ripping off the old one before Dean attaches the new one. And Cas listens, attentively, when Dean pops the hood to some car and starts explaining everything that’s under there.

It’s not exactly Cas’s thing, and it’s pretty obvious to Dean, but Cas does well with it regardless. And it’s nice. Having someone to teach it to. Having someone listen. Dean had been so focused on how badly Cas might need something like this, that he’d never stopped to consider it was something he could use, too.

They have lunch with Theresa and Pete, and Cas is absolutely delighted by them. They don’t seem to mind that he’s a little weird, and he’s more than happy to listen to their stories with rapt attention. Dean’s quiet through most of it, just eating his food. Watching. Taking it in.

Pete nearly falls out of his chair laughing at Cas’s recounted, edited story about Dean taking him to a strip club for the first time. Pete wipes a tear from his eye and asks Dean, “Where’d you find this guy?”

“Hell,” Dean says grimly, and he and Cas laugh about it all over again.

“You been havin’ fun today, Cas?” Theresa asks. “How good is Dean’s teaching?”

“Oh, Dean’s a very good teacher,” Cas says earnestly, and he ignores the way Dean coughs pointedly to tell him to stuff it. “And I’ve had a great deal of fun today. More so than I expected. It’s been nice to find another reason to get out of the house.”

Pete shifts forward in his seat. “You haven’t really done much since you got to Colorado, have you, kid?”

“Not much,” Cas admits. “Most of my time is spent making sure Claire is adjusting well. Dean takes care of a great deal of the rest.”

“Claire,” Theresa interrupts. “That’s your daughter?”

Cas doesn’t even hesitate the way he used to. “She is,” he says firmly.

Dean has to drop his head to hide his grin.

“How’s she taking to Bennett?” Theresa asks.

And if Cas is surprised that the interrogation has turned onto him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, the guy launches into talking about Claire like it’s something he’s been preparing for his whole life. He talks about how she’s doing in school. Her friends, all of which he knows by name. The subjects she loves the best and the extracurriculars she’s thinking about taking. Her music. All these things about Claire, so much, that Dean wonders when Cas had the time to learn all of it.

Theresa and Pete are smiling, by the time Cas finally winds down, and he looks self-conscious when he realizes how long he’d spoken. “Sorry,” Cas mumbles, and his cheeks flush red.

“Oh, don’t apologize on our account,” Theresa says dismissively. “You really love your daughter. It’s nice to see.”

“Cas is a great dad,” Dean adds. The first he’s spoken in a long time. Cas turns to look at him in surprise. “I mean, I didn’t expect it, honestly. No offense, dude. But he’s great. And Claire, she’s real grateful for it, even though she acts like she’s not. But Cas, he’s. He’s great with her. They’re good for one another.”

“Dean,” Cas says, sounding pleased.

Dean glances at him briefly. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“You all should come over for dinner sometime,” Theresa says firmly, and both Dean and Cas turn to stare at her in surprise. “C’mon, now. Dean used to do it all the time. What’s a few more plates at the table? Claire might even like it, too. I make a mean pie.”

“You’ve been holding out on me?” Dean says, affronted.

“Maybe next time, don’t keep your little family so hidden from me, Deano,” Theresa tells him, and she cackles when he scowls in response. “Hell, y’all could come tonight, if you want. Pete’s making pumpkin soup. I can whip together something for dessert.”

Cas leans forward, eager and delighted by the invite, and any reservations Dean had go flying out the window once he really gets a look at Cas’s stupid happy smile. “You’re sure we wouldn’t be imposing?”

“I don’t extend offers I don’t mean,” Theresa states, and with a clap on Cas’s shoulder as she passes, their dinner plans are set in stone.

“I see why you care for them so much,” Cas says, much later, when they’re alone in the garage again and Dean is replacing a car battery. Dean glances back at him, and Cas looks pointedly through the window back to Theresa and Pete, sitting at the front together. “They’re very kind people.”

“They’ve taken good care of me,” Dean mumbles, shrugging. “When not a lot of people would.”

Cas hums. He’s sitting next to a radio, some shitty thing that picks up more static than music, but he fiddles with the dials until he finds some oldies station that plays pretty decently. He turns the volume up, just a bit. They leave it on for the rest of the day.

They leave earlier than Dean normally does, in order to pick Claire up in time from school. Even though they change out of the coveralls and throw them into the laundry basket to get washed, the rusty smell of oil follows them out to the truck. Cas climbs into the passenger seat and rubs absentmindedly at his knuckles. When Dean turns the truck on, Cas finds that same station from earlier on the radio and plays it even louder here.

“You like Sam Cooke, Cas?” Dean asks, over the beat of the song.

Cas shrugs, and rolls his head towards Dean to give him a small, tired smile. “I enjoy this quite a lot, yes.”

Dean nods, and turns it up.

It’s a short drive to pick up Claire, and a blissfully short wait in line before they reach the front doors of the high school and she comes hurrying towards the truck. Claire throws her backpack into the seat next to her and wrinkles her nose once she’s in the cab, closing the door behind her. “Man, it reeks in here.”

“Cas worked hard today,” Dean tells her, and Cas turns red again and looks out the window.

Claire, at least, is delighted by the prospect of eating dinner with Theresa and Pete. She doesn’t seem to mind that she’s never met them before. Dean thinks it’s probably because she’s still trying to find a way to feel like she belongs here.

They were told not to bring anything, but Cas still makes a salad, anyway, ignoring the way Dean rolls his eyes. They shower and change and Claire comes bounding down the stairs in excitement when it’s time to go, and Dean looks at the pleased expressions on both of their faces and wonders why it took him so damn long to introduce Cas to Theresa.

  
  


It’s a nice dinner. Theresa has laid out nicer plates and silverware than she ever did when it was just Dean, and Claire adores her instantly. She listens raptly to every story Theresa tells, enamored and amused by the way Theresa is quick with a sharp comeback. Pete’s soup is great. The pie smells delicious. And, hell, Dean even throws some salad on his plate and is happy with that, too.

“Where were you and Claire before Bennett, Cas?” Pete asks, the second they all sit down at the table with bowls of soup in their hands.

“Pontiac, Illinois,” Cas tells him. “Claire was raised there until we moved here.”

Theresa hums. “You grow up in Pontiac?”

Dean has to bite his lip to keep from letting out an awkward laugh. He watches Cas out of the corner of his eye as Cas answers, hesitantly, “Oh, no. I grew up… everywhere, I suppose. I’ve been to a lot of places.”

“Army brat,” Theresa guesses, and none of them correct her. “Dean grew up about the same, right? Didn’t you say, kid?”

Dean nods. “Born in Kansas. Raised all over. Dad was a Marine, and he took business where he could, so. My brother and I grew up in motels, mostly.”

Pete shakes his head. “Must’ve been a rough way to grow up.”

“It taught me stuff I’ll never forget,” Dean says, because even that is easier than the truth.

“Were you out in Illinois before you came here, Dean?” Theresa asks him.

Without thinking, Dean answers, “No, I was in Indiana,” and promptly winces when Cas turns around sharply to look at him.

“Lisa?” Cas questions, and Dean’s not sure why it fucking sucks so bad that Cas remembered.

“Yeah, for a bit,” Dean tells him. “But it didn’t work out, so. I moved out. Moved on.”

Cas frowns, and for one terrifying moment Dean’s sure that Cas is gonna keep pushing it and he’s going to run out of answers, but Cas just drops his head back to his bowl and finishes his soup. Dean lets out a small breath.

“Well, we’re sure glad as hell to have you here,” Pete says. “Saves my sorry ass from having to get underneath those cars. My knees sure as hell ain’t what they used to be.”

“They never were,” Theresa tells him, patting his leg.

Pete rolls his eyes but leans forward and kisses her cheek, even after she sticks her tongue out at him. It’s a sweet moment. Childish, despite their age. For a moment, Dean feels like he’s invading, and he looks away.

“How did you two meet?” Cas asks, after he’s served himself a second bowl of soup.

Theresa’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and when she looks away, Pete answers for her. “A few months after Theresa’s first husband passed away, my car broke down at the stoplight by the train tracks, and that sorry piece of shit was towed to Woody’s. She fixed it up better than I’d ever been able to. I was enamored with her, but. Right place, wrong time.”

“Took us about two years to figure our shit out,” Theresa says. She gives them a wry smile. “Well. Took  _ me  _ about two years. Just lucky Pete waited for me.”

“Easiest choice I ever made,” Pete tells her, and he kisses her hand. Claire ducks her head, delighted by it, and they all laugh when Theresa pushes at Pete’s shoulder and calls him an old sap.

“We didn’t actually get together until Pete and I took a trip out to his old cabin up in the mountains,” Theresa said. “Dunno. Something about being up there. Away from everyone else, all the assholes down here with their judgmental eyes and sly comments. And the fresh snow. Blanketed everything. Changed everything. Laid one on him before we even got out of the car.”

“That’s sweet,” Claire says, and her cheeks turn pink when Theresa turns to look at her.

Theresa smiles at her, and it’s so damn warm that even Dean can feel it. “It was a real good moment,” she agrees. “Hell, some of our best moments have been in the snow, I think. Right, Pete?”

“Definitely,” Pete says. “One good thing about Colorado. Gives you a shitton of snow.”

“I can’t wait for it,” Claire admits.

Sitting forward, Dean asks, “You like the snow, Claire?”

She catches his gaze and looks, for a moment, uncertainly between him and Cas. “Yeah,” she says slowly. “I used to, um. We used to play in it every winter, when I was a kid. Me and… me and Jimmy.”

“Jimmy?” Theresa asks.

Cas says it easily, before anyone else gets a chance to, “Claire’s other father. Right, Claire?”

Dean looks up at him in surprise, only just managing to keep his expression level so Theresa and Pete don’t think anything’s out of order. Even Claire has glanced at him, a little taken aback.

“Yeah,” Claire says, after a beat. Her voice is choked up. She drops her gaze back to her plate, after that, and pushes the spoon around in the empty bowl.

“He passed away,” Cas tells them. His hands shake with hidden guilt, and Dean is struck by the impossible need to cover Cas’s hands with his own. “A few years ago.”

Softly, Theresa says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Me, too,” Cas murmurs. He wipes at his mouth with his napkin and gives the table an apologetic look, standing and saying, “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment.”

He drops a kiss to the top of Claire’s head as he passes by.

“I didn’t mean to…” Theresa starts, trailing off as Cas leaves the room. She catches Dean’s eye. “I didn’t mean to upset him.”

“He knows that,” Dean promises her. He nudges Claire’s arm, and her red-rimmed eyes meet his. “Hey, kiddo. Why don’t you go out there with him? I think you both could use a moment.”

Claire’s hands twist together in her lap. “Dean,” she says, hesitant.

“I know he ain’t your favorite person right now, but you need him just as much as he needs you. Go, Claire. Please.”

She excuses herself from the table, too, and follows sluggishly out the same way Cas went.

“Hell of a dinner party, Ther,” Theresa mutters, and Pete twines their hands together again.

“They’re okay,” Dean promises her, though he’s not so sure himself. He just hopes sending Claire out was the right thing. God, he nearly prays that it is. He thinks they’ll be good for one another right now. Thinks Claire has worked past most of her initial anger, and that Cas has worked past most of his guilt. “They’ll be okay.”

Theresa laughs humorlessly. “Guess I wasn’t kidding when I said everyone’s lost someone, huh?”

“Us fuckups gotta stick together,” Dean agrees. He stands, picking up the empty plates that Claire and Cas left behind. “What do you say we cut into that pie? Cas and Claire are gonna need it by the time they come back in.”

“Hell, yes,” Pete agrees gruffly, and it makes Theresa laugh.

They stay out front, for a while. For so long that Dean gets nervous and wanders out there to find them. But they’re just sitting next to each other on the concrete steps, looking out at the road. Claire’s face is blotchy and red from crying, but she still smiles when she catches sight of Dean. She still smiles.

“Had to come make sure you weren’t kidnapped,” Dean tells them. “You’ve been out here for a while.”

“The weather’s nice,” Cas says. His voice is even gruffer than usual.

Claire shakes her head. “Did we ruin dinner?”

“Hell, no,” Dean says. “C’mon. They’re serving up the pie, and I’ll eat all your damn pieces if you don’t get inside and grab some first.”

He’s surprised, then, after Claire stands up, that she pauses to hug him before walking inside. She murmurs a  _ thank you  _ against Dean’s chest and is gone so fast after that, that Dean’s left wondering if he imagined the whole thing. He glances at Cas, next.

“You gonna hug me, too?” Dean asks.

“If you’re offering,” Cas tells him, mouth curling into a timid smile. “Thank you, for sending her out here.”

Dean shrugs. “Figured it would do you both some good. What’s the verdict? Did she tell you she hates you?”

“Surprisingly?” Cas says. “No.”

He does hug Dean. A brief little thing that surprises Dean just as much as Claire’s did. It’s barely an embrace. An arm quickly slung over Dean’s shoulder and the fast press of their bodies together before Cas is pulling away again and heading back inside. Dean can already hear Claire laughing again at the kitchen table.

“I was just telling Claire and Cas,” Theresa says, when Dean finally finds his feet again and is able to move past the doorway. “I don’t want to overstep, but. We still have that cabin. It’s small as shit but it’s private. And it’s supposed to snow up in the mountains soon. So if y’all ever decide you wanna get away from Bennett, even just for a few nights. We can toss you the keys.”

“That’s a very generous offer, but,” Cas starts, and the rest of his sentence dies in his throat when Claire turns to look at him.

She’s so quiet Dean can barely hear her as she asks, “Can we, Cas? Please?”

Cas looks at Dean helplessly.

“We’ll take you up on that sometime,” he says, finally, and Claire’s shoulders sag in relief. Dean joins them back at the table, in his seat next to Cas, and he drops a hand on Cas’s knee and squeezes it reassuringly. 

The pie is great. The company is better. They stay there for a while, enjoying one another. Dean doesn’t even care when he gets berated again for hiding Cas and Claire away for so long.

And it feels good. Feels like family again. A warm and cluttered house and stomachs full and laughter echoing. They get a piece of this, every night, in their own home, but it’s better with more people. With someone else.

“Here,” Theresa says, when they’re all at the door to leave. She presses a pie into Claire’s hands. “Figured I better make one for y’all to take home.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Cas tells her.

“She absolutely did,” Dean argues, and they all laugh when Cas elbows him in the stomach. “No, but seriously. Thanks, Ther. Thanks, Pete. This was awesome.”

Theresa tugs Claire into a quick hug. “It was a genuine delight to meet you, Claire,” she says. “Tell Dean to let you come over more. I think you and I could get up to quite a lot of trouble together.”

“Hey,” Dean protests.

“I just meant makin’ pies, Dean,” Theresa lies, winking at Claire. She pulls Cas into a hug, too. “And you, kiddo. I better see you around the shop again, you hear me? You ain’t the best mechanic we’ve ever had but you’re definitely the cutest.”

Dean rolls his eyes, saying, “Alright, alright, go get in the car. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Theresa grabs him, before he can leave, and pulls him into a hug, too. It surprises him how badly he’d needed it. “Those are good people, Dean,” she tells them. “You keep them safe, you hear me? That sweet girl and her dad need you.”

“I will, Jesus,” Dean mutters, but he wraps his arms tight around Theresa and wonders if she can tell that he needs them just as bad, too.

It’s a quiet ride home, and an even quieter walk inside the house. Dean isn’t surprised that Claire wishes them both a goodnight before going upstairs and shutting her door behind her. Still, despite the near-mishap at dinner, she seems good. A happy kind of tired that makes Dean feel like he did good today. He goes to the kitchen to pour himself and Cas a glass of whiskey, while Cas goes upstairs quickly to change.

Dean leaves the kitchen light on as he goes and settles into the couch, figuring that either Cas will come back and turn it off when he turns on the living room light or that they’ll just sit like this and be fine. The whiskey is a crisp burn down his throat.

“Nightcap?” Dean calls, when he hears Cas’s bedroom door open again before he comes down the stairs. 

“Claire had fun,” Cas murmurs. He sits down, cross-legged, on the opposite end of the couch. Dean hands him a glass of whiskey, and Cas rolls the cup between his hands. “Theresa and Pete are very kind. I think she’ll take to them nicely.”

Dean hums. He sips his drink. “They’re good people. And she’s got them wrapped around their fingers already.”

Nodding, Cas says, “She’s good at that.”

“Sure as hell is,” Dean agrees.

It’s quiet between them, for a while, as they share a drink. The light from the kitchen is the only thing illuminating them. Dean watches out the front window, as a few scattered cars drive by, and Cas watches Dean. It’s not as weird as it used to be, Dean realizes. The staring. Cas is watching over him. It would be stranger, now, if he looked away.

The sky grows darker. Dean drains his drink, and Cas isn’t too far behind him. Life goes on. It’s the damnedest thing.

“You know, Claire’s fall break is coming up soon,” Dean starts.

But Cas says, “Dean,” and something about the way he says it makes Dean pause. Cas is sheepish, almost shy, as he continues, “You spoke of Lisa earlier, at dinner. You mentioned she let you stay with her.”

Dean looks away again. “She did.”

There’s more to it. There’s always more to it.

“Why didn’t you stay?” Cas asks.

“Like I said,” Dean mutters, and he shrugs like none of this matters even though it’s stinging like liquor on an open wound. “She deserved better than what I could give her.”

When Dean pulls himself off the couch, Cas doesn’t stop him. He does, though, follow Dean into the kitchen. Cas watches quietly as Dean rinses his glass out at the sink, and wordlessly passes his own over when Dean extends a hand. It’s only after Dean’s placed both in the dishwasher that Cas finally says, “There’s more to it than that, Dean. I know you better than that.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, sighing. “I guess you do.”

They go quietly, back to the couch. Dean wonders if it means anything that he finds it easier to have this conversation shrouded in the half-lit room. He doesn’t waste too much time dwelling on it though, and Cas is patient until Dean is ready to talk again.

“She would have let me stay, I think,” Dean says finally. Part of him wishes he’d kept the glass, at least for his hands to have something to do. Something to keep him distracted. “But I couldn’t. I… I don’t know. I mean it, really, that I think she could do better than me. And I was worse off when I went to her than I was when I found you. She and Ben didn’t deserve that.”

“But Claire and I did?” Cas prods.

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, it ain’t like that. With you, with Claire, it… I mean, I didn’t even fucking hesitate, you know? I knew I had to. I never felt that, staying with Lisa and Ben. I wanted to. God, I wanted that life so bad, you know? Settling in. Someone in the spot next to me every night. A kid to take care of. But it wouldn’t have been real. It would’ve felt. Hollow.”

“And now?” Cas asks. He gestures to the house. To Claire’s room. To himself. “This?”

“This,” Dean says, and he knocks his knee against Cas’s, “is family. And I think it’s working pretty well for us.”

Cas smiles and drops his head. The guy needs it, Dean thinks. Needs this. The kind of family that shows up because they can and not because God ordered it. Hell, they all need something like this, and maybe that’s why it works so damn well. Dean hopes it is. Hopes that Cas and Claire think it’s working, too. He holds on to it tightly. This little house, the people under its roof. This small town and all they’ve done for Dean since he’s arrived. His grief. He even holds onto that. He places it in his hands and he never forgets it but he won’t let it choke him anymore.

“I was worried you’d grow tired of us,” Cas admits, pulling Dean from his reverie. “Claire is a moody teenage girl. I’m an ex-angel of the lord learning to be human for the first time. I’m sure I behave like a toddler. You’ve basically taken on two children. And I worried a lot, at the beginning, that you’d ask us to leave.”

“I won’t,” Dean says quickly. He’s surprised at how much he means it.

Cas takes a deep breath. “Perhaps not for a while,” he allows. “But you will move on eventually, Dean. You’ll… find someone you’ll want to settle down with. You said it yourself. Someone in the spot next to you every night. And when that day comes, the house won’t be big enough for Claire and I to stay.”

“You’re my best friend, Cas,” Dean says honestly, like it’s any kind of reasoning. He’s not sure why he says it at all.

“I know,” Cas tells him. “You’re my best friend, too.”

It falls quiet between them. Dean’s not sure why the air between them feels stifling now. He’s not sure why the thought of Cas and Claire leaving at all makes his lungs ache. But he doesn’t say any of it, because he doesn’t understand any of it, so instead he says, “We can cross that bridge if we get to it.”

Placating, Cas says, “Alright, Dean.”

So it goes. They sit together for a while, until Dean finally accepts the fact that he’s probably not going to fall asleep for a while and turns the tv on. Cas doesn’t leave, and Dean finds that he doesn’t mind all that much.

“This one,” Cas says, when Dean is flipping through channels, so Dean stops on some late night made-for-television movie with a dewy-eyed blonde protagonist and resigns himself to watching her fall in love with some asshole-turned-hero.

Cas chuckles at jokes he doesn’t understand. Dean explains them anyway, and joins in when Cas laughs again. He doesn’t ask as many questions as he normally does when they watch stuff together. Dean finds himself talking throughout it anyway. It’s habit, he thinks. Something born out of teaching someone pop culture in a short period of time. This actor was also in this. That line is a reference to that. So on and so forth.

Dean glances over at Cas, about halfway through the movie, and realizes that Cas has fallen asleep. Sitting up, head cradled in his hand, drooling. It’s quite a sight. If Cas were Sam, Dean would do something now like hang a spoon on his nose or write on his forehead in Sharpie. But it’s not Sam. It’s Cas. And that reason alone makes Dean pause.

He could wake Cas up. He could leave him here, to catch some shut-eye that he clearly needs. Or Dean could wait. Let the movie play out. Keep an eye on him so he doesn’t fall over or choke on his own spit and give him a chance to wake up on his own.

It’s an easy choice, in the end. Dean turns back to the movie and watches the rest of it, only barely paying attention. The main character runs through an airport. Dean closes his eyes.

Dean reopens his eyes, after a while, and it’s much darker in the house now. He wakes up to Cas’s face hovering over him, Cas’s hand on his arm. The tv is turned off. It takes Dean a while to understand that he fell asleep.

“Go to bed, Dean,” Cas says softly, and he hooks his hand underneath Dean’s arm to help him up.

“You go to bed,” Dean mumbles. He holds on to Cas as they both move quietly up the stairs. Cas, the gentleman, even walks Dean to his room. Dean squeezes his arm as thanks, and drops his hold on Cas to push open his bedroom door. “G’night, Cas.”

Quietly, Cas murmurs, “Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean falls asleep again, before his head even hits the pillow, and as his eyes close he’s left wondering if he imagined the way that Cas lingered in the doorway. He isn’t given the chance to dwell on it long.

* * *

Claire’s school lets out early on a Wednesday to kick off her fall break, so Dean takes the rest of the week off and leaves early and goes with Cas to pick her up from school. She sprints inside, before Dean’s even got the car in park, yelling excitedly, and Cas laughs after her.

“Do you think she’s looking forward to this?” Dean mutters, but even he’s grinning as he kills the engine and climbs out of the car.

Cas trails behind him. “She’s been very happy this past week. It’s been nice to see a smile on her face every day.”

Dean nods. He holds the door open for Cas as they both walk through. “Yeah, well,” Dean says, shrugging. “It’s been a few months. Maybe she’s more used to things now. Maybe she’s finally adjusted.”

He thinks he sees a frown on Cas’s face, but it’s gone the next time he looks.

They make quick work of getting ready to go, loading up the truck with their bags and with a cooler of food Dean packed before going to work today. Cas tosses in more blankets than they’ll probably need, and he just rolls his eyes when Dean points this out. Claire’s decked out in her brand-new snow clothes, a puffy coat and boots and gloves that Cas deemed appropriate for the colder temperatures.

“You packed socks?” Dean asks Cas, because he knows Cas has a tendency to forget.

Scowling, Cas says petulantly, “Of course I packed socks, Dean, I’m not an infant.”

Dean throws some extra pairs into his bag anyways, just to be safe.

They stop for lunch at some fast food place, much to Claire’s delight and Cas’s resignation. Dean’s surprised that he feels pretty indifferent about it, wishing almost aimlessly for a home-cooked meal instead of this. God, if a younger version of him could see this. He wouldn’t be able to believe it.

It’s a two-hour drive to Pete and Theresa’s cabin, and Claire sleeps through all of it. Cas dozes off, too, at least twice, but spends most of the drive looking at maps and reciting directions to Dean. He’s just as excited for the snow as Claire is, if not more. Dean just hopes they both get what they want out of this.

They stop, once, about thirty minutes out, when Claire wakes up and announces that she has to pee. Dean pulls the truck into some rest stop, and Claire and Cas both clear out.

Cas comes back, cradling a small pile of snow in his hand and grinning broadly. There’s barely any on the ground yet, more the closer they get to the mountains, but Cas still seems pleased by the small bounty he’s found. Dean recognizes the glint in Cas’s eye and threatens, “If you throw that at me, Cas, you’ll regret it.”

His laughter echoes inside Dean for the rest of the drive.

The cabin is small. Tucked between thick trees on a long stretch of road with a few other cabins nearby. There’s some ice on the ground, and old snow that doesn’t seem to impress Cas or Claire much, but there’s a promise of snowfall in the weather report and in the clouds up above. They pull their bags out of the truck, unloading slowly, and they follow Dean up the icy steps to the front door.

“Careful,” he tells them, out of habit. The key sticks in the lock and the deck creaks under their weight. Dean’s thrilled to be here.

He swings the door open. It leads them to a small kitchen and living space, with a large fireplace against the back wall. There’s a tiny hallway that Dean assumes leads to the rooms and the bathroom. A small fridge, an even smaller table, a stovetop and oven. One couch that’s very obviously from the sixties. Orange carpet to match.

“I’ve never been camping like this,” Claire says, and when Dean glances back at her, he’s relieved to see she still looks happy.

Without much else to do, they drop their stuff and get started on settling in. Dean kicks off the fire, even though it’s a little early in the night, because he can already tell the cabin’s going to get pretty cold tonight. Cas turns on the oven to cook the pizza they’d brought. Claire hangs her coat on the rack by the door, toes her shoes off, and goes exploring.

There’s two rooms. The master, with a queen-sized bed, and the spare. Two twin mattresses are tucked into that one. Silently, Dean and Cas agree to let Claire have the master and they place their stuff in the smaller room.

“Hope you don’t mind rooming with me,” Dean jokes, grinning wolfishly as he teases Cas.

And Cas, blessfully, meets Dean in the middle, shooting back, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep through the snoring, but I’ll try to survive.”

Claire pops her head in their room, before Dean can say anything back. “Can we eat and watch a movie?” she asks. She points to the living area. “There’s a tv in there.”

“Up to Cas,” Dean tells her. They both turn their gaze to the man in question.

“What the hell,” Cas says, quirking his lip. “It’s your fall break.”

Claire throws blankets down on the ground and Cas loads pizza up on paper plates and they sit on the floor, digging in to the warm food and arguing about which movie to put in. Eventually Claire convinces them to watch something scary, reasoning, “You guys know it’s fake as shit anyway, so what’s it gonna do? Hurt you?” and Dean can’t argue with that so he puts in The Others, the only non-rated R movie he can find.

It’s nice. Warm in a way that has nothing to do with the fire they all sit in front of. Claire eats three pieces of pizza and drinks her soda happily and sits close to Cas, turning into his shoulder during the jump scares. Cas looks amazed that it’s happening at all.

Cas gasps out loud when he realizes the twist, and it cracks Dean up so hard they have to pause the movie until he’s done. Claire laughs, too, and Cas pretends to be put out, but Dean sees the pleased smile on his face when Claire isn’t looking.

Dean puts on Sixth Sense next, after a delightful moment where he figures out that Cas hasn’t seen that one, either. Cas and Claire lean their backs against the couch and settle in for the next movie, and Dean stands to put the leftover pizza away.

He stops, for a moment, in the kitchen. After he’s put the food away in the fridge and thrown away their plates. And he just looks. Looks at Cas, buried underneath several blankets, and Claire, hiding half her face behind her hoodie as they watch. Illuminated by the fire and looking content and warm and safe. And Dean feels good. He feels  _ damn  _ good about it.

Claire falls asleep halfway through Casablanca _ ,  _ curled up against Cas’s shoulder and fisting the blanket between her fingers. Her hair covers her face, and Cas brushes it back when he realizes she’s sleeping.

“I can take her to her bed, if you need,” Dean murmurs, giving Cas an out, but Cas shakes his head.

“She’s fine here,” he whispers. “I don’t mind.”

Dean shrugs. They watch the movie quietly.

When the credits roll, Dean stands on achy legs and turns the tv off. He evens out the logs in the fireplace to start putting out the fire. Cas is quiet, as Dean works. He’s quiet still even as Dean turns to look at him again.

“You good?” Dean asks. He’s careful to keep his voice low.

Cas still seems surprised to be drawn out of his reverie. He glances first at Claire, then back at Dean. It takes him a moment to answer, just as quietly, “I think I’ve never been better.”

Dean huffs out a small laugh. “You’re gonna have one hell of a shoulder ache in the morning, you know.”

“It’s worth it, for this.”

It falls silent, at that. Dean stands by the fire and continues to prod at it so it goes out slowly. Outside the window, snow starts to fall.

“You really are great with her, you know,” Dean murmurs, after a while. Cas looks up at him again. “I’m serious. I know I don’t have much to go on, being raised by John friggin’ Winchester and all that, but. You’re doing a hell of a lot better than a lot of people would in your situation.”

Cas takes a deep breath. The movement jostles Claire, just a little, but not enough to wake her up. Cas whispers, “I felt responsible for what had happened to her, when I found her. I felt like I owed her a better life. But it’s more than that, now. I do still want her to have a better life. I want her to be happy. But I… I love her. As if she really were my own daughter. It’s very confusing to navigate. It’s terrifying that I don’t know what she thinks of me. But she’s happier, now. Healthy. Taken care of. That’s really all I can ask for, I suppose.”

“For what it’s worth, I think she loves you, too,” Dean tells him. “Being taken care of like that? Cared for like that? It’d be hard as hell not to love you back.”

This, for some reason, makes Cas laugh softly. “She doesn’t have to,” he says, after a beat. “I would love it if she did. But she doesn’t have to. That’s not her job.”

“It wasn’t your job, either,” Dean points out.

“No,” Cas agrees. He brushes another strand of hair off of Claire’s forehead. “But I’m glad to do it anyway.”

The fire goes out. Cas shakes Claire’s shoulder gently, to wake her. Quietly, the inhabitants of the cabin pick blankets up off the ground and carry them to their respective beds. It will be a cold night in the cabin, but none of them feel it now. Claire changes into pajamas, and brushes her teeth with the bathroom door wide open. She hesitates, in the doorway of the spare room, looking between Dean and Cas.

“Night, Cas,” she says finally.

Smiling, he says, “Goodnight, Claire.”

She turns to Dean. Says it again, and hesitates still even after Dean says it back. Her gaze darts back to Cas. Like there’s more she wants to say. Dean wonders if she were truly asleep for the entirety of his conversation with Cas. The hesitant look in her eyes tells Dean there’s something more there.

Eventually, she just murmurs, “Goodnight,” again, and shuffles into her room, closing the door behind her.

“Do you think she had a good night?” Cas asks, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He holds a threadbare shirt in his hands, something Dean’s almost certain was in his own closet once before it ended up in Cas’s laundry basket. He doesn’t comment on it, anyway.

“Yeah, I think she had fun,” Dean tells him. “This is good for her. It’s good for you, too.”

Cas startles, and he tears his gaze away from Claire’s closed door to catch Dean’s eye. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face, and a hesitant quirk of his mouth as he says, “I think this is good for all of us.”

“That, too,” Dean agrees.

It’s not until much later, until they’ve both climbed into their own beds and burrowed underneath as many blankets as they can each stand, that Cas says anything else. He breaks the steady monotony of the settling house and the breeze outside to say, “Do you think it’s hurting her? Being here with me and not her father?”

Dean rolls to his side. In the darkness of the room, he can’t make out Cas’s face, but he can see the outline of him on his own bed. “What are you talking about?”

“Claire mentioned she and Jimmy used to play together, in the snow,” Cas whispers. “Winters in Pontiac. It’s a fond memory for her. But I’m not Jimmy. Do you think it hurts her? Being here with someone who looks like her father but isn’t?”

“Cas,” Dean says. “You may not be Jimmy Novak, but you  _ are  _ her father.”

“Dean,” Cas murmurs, sound tired and frustrated and scared and entirely too human.

“No, you are, man,” Dean whispers back. “Even if she doesn’t realize it yet. Family, it doesn’t have to be blood. It’s  _ not _ . Bobby, he was a better father to me than John ever was. Me and Sam. The Harvelles. Rufus. Everyone we’ve met along the way. You’re there for Claire, okay? You’re raising her. And you love her, just like any dad should. So. You’re not Jimmy, no, but you are her dad. You are, Cas.”

It’s quiet, for so long after Dean stops talking, that for a moment he’s sure Cas has fallen asleep. Dean half-hopes he has. They both need it. Sleep. Rest. Everything in between. But as Dean turns on his side again, pulling the covers over his shoulders, he hears Cas breathe out, “Thank you, Dean.”

“Any time,” Dean says gruffly, and he closes his eyes before he can think about just how much he means that.

* * *

Dean wakes up to quiet in the cabin. This, he’s used to. It’s much colder than it is at home, though, so he pulls himself out of bed and winces as his feet hit the cold ground and pads, quietly, to his bag to pull a pair of thick socks out.

He notices, as he tugs out another flannel and shrugs it on over his shoulders, that the other bed in the room is empty. Slept in, certainly, if the rumpled and unmade sheets are anything to go by. But Cas isn’t there. Dean walks quietly out of the room to find him.

It’s a small cabin. Dean doesn’t see Cas in the kitchen or living space when he pops his head in. The bathroom door is wide open, but the light is still on. Dean flips it off as he passes. The door to the master bedroom is open, just a crack, so Dean pokes it open a little bit more. Claire’s still asleep, curled up on the bed, with a pile of blankets covering her. It’s just her in here. Dean goes in, just to adjust the blankets that had shifted off of her, and is careful to close the door behind him as he goes.

The coffee pot is still on, when Dean wanders back into the kitchen. That lessens the ball of anxiety that had been building in his chest. If the coffee pot has been started, Cas can’t be too far from it. And Cas’s coat is missing from the rack, meaning he’d likely wandered outside.

Outside. Of course. It was meant to snow last night.

Dean goes to put on his own coats and boots, thinking if he follows after him he can track Cas down before the idiot does something stupid like get himself lost. Yet, Dean pauses, when he reaches the door. Cas’s boots are in the same spot they were placed last night.

He rips open the front door, panic twisting in his gut. 

Cas stands on the balcony, a cup of coffee steaming in his hands, with his face tipped up towards the sky. Dean’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight of him.

“Cas?” Dean says.

It’s snowing. Not too bad, but enough that there are flakes of it in Cas’s hair. It came down good last night. There’s a few inches on the deck. And Cas, wearing a coat that isn’t zipped up properly and a glove on one hand, standing barefoot in the middle of it. His eyes are closed, but a smile creeps across his face. “Hello, Dean.”

“What the fuck?” Dean snaps, shoving the door back open and grabbing Cas’s boots. “Why didn’t you put fucking shoes on? What the hell is wrong with you, dude, you’re human now, you can’t just—you need to wear shoes!”

Cas blinks, tilting his head down as Dean staggers out towards him and drops the boots at his feet. He needs socks, too, probably, but Dean figures shoes are a better place to start. He puts a hand on Cas’s arm to help as Cas slides into the boots. “I wanted to feel the snow.”

Dean huffs. “You don’t need to feel it barefoot, you dumbass.”

“I’ve never experienced anything like this,” Cas says honestly, and his voice is so filled with wonder that for a moment Dean has to stop and just look at him. “Snow. I thought it was one of the more unnecessary creations, though I admired its beauty from time to time. But this, Dean.  _ This.  _ Digging my toes into the cold and feeling it as it hits my face. There’s nothing like it.”

“We’re sitting you in front of the fire to warm you up when we go back inside,” Dean warns. “I’ll kill you myself if you catch a cold.”

Cas chuckles, a low and rumbly thing that Dean can feel in his fingertips. “I’m sure you will.”

He tilts his head back up to the sky. Dean watches him, silent, transfixed. Sometimes it’s hard for him to comprehend that the guy in front of him is no longer a warrior of heaven. Castiel tore down legions of demons in the name of humanity. Cas is just a guy whose cheeks turn pink every time a snowflake lands there and melts into his skin.

“Why’re you up so early?” Dean asks. He doesn’t mean to say it so quietly, but some part of him must know that there is a stillness here that neither of them want broken.

“I slept fitfully,” Cas admits. He drops his head again and raises his coffee mug to his lips. Dean waits, patient, for Cas to carry on. Always having a knack for knowing when he’s got more to say. “I find it difficult to sleep comfortably in places other than home.”

“Home,” Dean echoes.

Cas glances back at him. “You came looking for me.”

He says it like he’s surprised. Always like he’s surprised. Like it isn’t ingrained in Dean’s DNA now to need to keep Cas safe. Dean kicks a bit of snow and murmurs, “You weren’t in your bed when I got up. So I was worried.”

“Does it ever stop, Dean?” Cas asks him, voice curious but not contrite. “Your desire to keep everyone safe?”

Smiling, and just a little bit sad, Dean says, “What do you think?”

“I think,” Cas answers, “that you deserve a break from saving people. But I don’t think you’ll ever stop going out of your way to take care of people. I hope you never stop. It’s a truly admirable quality of yours. I know Claire and I are certainly grateful for it.”

It makes him pause. It makes his stomach twist. Dean looks away from Cas, finally, and glances at the horizon. It’s still so early that the sun has barely begin to creep over the mountaintops. The snow still comes down gently. And Dean hesitates.

“I didn’t take you and Claire in out of a need to save you,” he say, and it’s important, for some reason, that he say it right. That Cas really gets it. “You would have been fine on your own. I did it because it’s you, Cas. Because it’s you and you’ve been there for me and because that friggin means something.”

“I know this isn’t what you expected out of your life here,” Cas tries to say, but he stops when Dean raises a hand to quiet him.

“Doesn’t matter what I expected,” he says firmly. “Because this is what I chose instead.”

He’s not sure he’s gotten the point across, but Cas falls silent, anyway, and that’s good enough for him. Cas takes another sip of his coffee. Dean shoves his hands into his pockets and looks up at the sky.

It’s peaceful. Hell, it’s perfect. Nothing there but the solitude resting like a warm blanket on their shoulders. The sun, as it rises, tentatively shining through the clouds. The snow, as it falls, quietly and without haste, like it’s got all the time in the world.

And Cas, who is looking at Dean like he’s just figured out something real important.

“What?” Dean asks, and he surprises himself by not feeling self-conscious under Cas’s scrutiny for once. Of all things, he just feels warm about it.

“Nothing,” Cas tells him. His expression doesn’t change.

Dean knows there’s more to it, but he doesn’t push. Not this time. Instead, he turns his head back to the sky and smiles when Cas’s arm presses into his.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter fought me tooth and nail BUT it is finally done thank u for ur patience😭
> 
> big thank you to sabi and cait for letting me be a whiny baby in their texts every day and for beta reading this and being my cheerleaders and for being the best and most beautiful wives this little planet could ask for they are angels and i owe them everything xoxo
> 
> ANYWAY I HOPE U ENJOY... it's new years for this liddol family :D

Something that Dean has learned since he quit hunting cold turkey, and traded in his guns and bullets for hammers and nails, is that time passes by a lot differently when you aren’t spending every day running for your goddamn life.

He never considered hunting  _ stable,  _ but there was a consistency in the fact that most of his days started out the same. Waking up in some motel somewhere, splitting a stale breakfast and half a cup of coffee with Sam, then setting out to kill an evil son of a bitch or two. He spent nearly every week unaware if it was Monday or Friday. Hell, sometimes he only figured out what month it was after walking past a calendar in some victim’s house.

Dean didn’t realize it was kind of a fucked up way to go through the year until he wasn’t constantly running for his life. He has  _ weeks  _ again, now. A schedule he’s so used to that he knows where they’re meant to be without even having to check.

The last days of October creep by slowly, and Dean spends most of them on high alert out of habit. He checks the news so often that he can tell it makes Cas nervous. Dean’s desperate to make sure he doesn’t miss anything, whether it’s demons celebrating the season or sacrifices to the Father of Halloween. But the news stays quiet. Dean’s not sure what to make of it, yet.

When Claire asks if she can sleep over at a friend’s house on Halloween night, it takes a long time for Dean’s hands to stop shaking even after Cas says yes. He lets her go, anyway, and she’s fine. Cas stays with Dean, and he hands out candy to trick-or-treaters who show up on their doorstep, and he looks so damn pleased by it that eventually Dean forgets to be worried and just relaxes into the holiday instead.

Still, Thanksgiving sneaks up on him. Most likely because he’s never really celebrated it before. It’s a mutual agreement, from everyone in the house, that they can do without it this year, so Dean orders takeout on a regular Thursday and they spend the weekend tearing ugly wallpaper off of everything on the second level. They paint the bedrooms and the hallway and the bathrooms upstairs all in one go on the last day of November, and spend the night in the living room with sleeping bags and blankets and one shitty air mattress that deflates halfway through. When Claire wakes them both up and asks if they can have pie for breakfast, Dean grins like it’s the best idea he’s ever heard, and Cas is unable to tell them both no. 

It snows, in December. Harder than Dean can ever remember it coming down. He wakes up extra early each morning to shovel the driveway and ice the sidewalks so no one falls, and each morning he comes back inside to a freshly brewed pot of coffee and a grumpy ex-angel drinking his own cup and waiting for Dean.

The point is, time goes by. And it goes by a hell of a lot faster than Dean thought it would, especially after everything he’s gone through. It surprises him how grateful he is for it. Because it means that the world is still turning.

Dean ordered cabinets back in October, and on a Sunday in December they finally show up. The excitement he feels must be written all over his face, because Cas just sighs dramatically as Dean tears open the boxes, and he takes the shopping list off the fridge and says, “I can go by myself, if you’d like to get started on putting those up.”

“Yes,” Dean says immediately. He grins at Cas like a kid who opened his Christmas presents a few days early, and even if Cas is pretending to be annoyed by it, he can’t help but smile back at Dean. “Wait. Are you sure?”

“I can handle a grocery store on my own, Dean,” Cas reminds him.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know that, geez. Do you wanna check if Claire wants to go with you, though?”

“Are those the new cabinets?” Claire shouts, and about three seconds later, she comes running down the stairs. “Oh my god, finally!”

“I think she’d prefer to help you today,” Cas says dryly.

So Claire stays, and Cas goes, and once they hear the Impala roar down the street before turning out of the neighborhood, Claire and Dean set to work hauling every box inside.

They start by tearing out the cabinets they’d left in place for storage in the kitchen, before these came in. Dean lifts the sheets of plywood they’ve been using as a countertop and props them against the wall, and Claire empties all the drawers before taking a hammer to them and ripping them out of the ground.

Dean’s laughing at her excitement as she tears into it, and Claire just huffs and pushes her hair out of her face and ignores him when he says, “Not sure you’re excited enough for this, kid.”

They clear the kitchen up faster than Dean had expected to get it done, with the two of them, and they load the old and broken pieces into the back of Dean’s truck to be taken to the dump later. Claire surprises him by not complaining at all, even as they clean up. Dean is just glad she has something to feel excited about doing.

He gets Claire started on fastening the cabinet doors while he pulls shit out of boxes. It’s not the most efficient, since Dean’s pretty sure he’d be a lot quicker than her, but it is the job she’s excited about and Dean can handle the boring shit if it means Claire’s in a good mood.

“Want me to put on some music?” Dean asks, after he cuts through the plastic wrap on another box and tosses it to the side.

Grinning, Claire tells him snidely, “Not if it’s your old ass music.”

“Just how old do you think I am, kid?” Dean grumbles. “And that music, it’s friggin’ timeless, alright? Show it the respect it deserves. Hell of a lot better than whatever pop shit is on the radio these days.”

“Okay, I saw you singing along to that Taylor Swift song they had playing at the grocery store last week, don’t even,” Claire shoots back.

Affronted, Dean scoffs, “What? I did not.”

Claire’s grin turns into a smirk, now, and it’s a look that would bug the hell out of Dean if it came from any other teenager, but when it comes from Claire it just makes Dean feel proud. “If that’s your story.”

“Shut up and build your cabinets,” Dean mutters, and he ducks his head before Claire can see him grinning and get embarrassed by it.

They’ve got everything assembled before Cas gets back with the groceries. They’ll put them up, next, but at the moment both Claire and Dean are breathing a little heavier and have some sweat at their brows, so Dean sits back on his heels and says, “Good to take a little break?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Claire agrees.

“Hey,” Dean protests, but it’s halfhearted and best and Claire knows it. She shoots him an unimpressed look that Dean translates as  _ you’re one hundred percent worse,  _ and Dean shrugs because he knows she’s not wrong. “You need water or anything?”

Claire watches him quietly as he clambers slowly to his feet, rolling her eyes when his knees pop loudly and he groans. “How about coffee?” she asks hopefully.

“How about water?” Dean suggests back, and he tosses her a bottle of water from the fridge. “Coffee will stunt your growth, you know. And you’re already struggling in that department, shortstack.”

“You’re one to talk,” Claire mutters.

“Watch the backtalk, kid,” Dean says. He pulls a water bottle out of the fridge for himself and drains half of it in one go.

Claire gives him a falsely sweet look, and tells him, “But Dean, I learn from the best.”

“And look at all the trouble that got me into,” he says, gesturing to himself. “Smartass.”

She doesn’t add anything to that, so they lapse into a comfortable silence as they catch their breath. Dean leans against the refrigerator and looks out the windows into the backyard and wonders, for the first time, what he’ll do for out there. Something nice. A place where people can gather and eat together. And a damn barbecue, that’s for sure.

Everything is stitching together. Slowly, albeit, but nonetheless. This ugly house that hadn’t been worth a damn when he bought it is starting to look like the kind of home Dean never imagined he’d have. The thought freaks him out, almost as much as it makes him proud, so Dean drinks the rest of his water and pushes the thought from his mind.

“Need another one?” Dean asks, and Claire looks up at him and stops absentmindedly picking at the bottle label. She shakes her head.

There’s a crappy old radio that Dean took from the garage after Pete brought in a new one, so before they get back to work, he goes out to the garage and gets it. Even if Claire needles him about the music he puts on, he knows they both like it. He hums some tune he doesn’t really recognize as he pulls the radio off the shelf. Claire’s still sitting in the same spot, when he comes back in and sets it down on the table.

“You missed a phone call,” she tells him, sounding a little bored, and Dean raises an eyebrow at her.

“Couldn’t holler to tell me my phone was ringing?”

Claire sighs, pulling herself up to her feet, and tells him sharply, “I didn’t realize it was gonna take you five whole minutes to get to the garage and back.”

Dean picks up his phone. There’s a notification for a missed call from CJ Barrett. He hesitates, looking at the name, and glances at Claire, who is now examining one of the cabinets she put together with a critical eye.

“This is crooked,” she announces, and her mouth twists down.

“It’s okay,” Dean reassures her, and her eyes snap up to look at him. “Seriously. It’s awesome that you noticed now. And it’s an easy fix. Just unscrew the hinges, and check them again before you retighten. Good as new.”

Claire has a habit of chewing on her bottom lip when she’s uncertain about something. She glances back at the cabinet. “You want me to fix it?”

“Yeah, you got it,” Dean says easily. “I gotta take this upstairs, you good for a minute?”

“Oh my god, I’m not a kid,” Claire tells him, exasperated. She picks a drill up off the ground and crouches down to start fixing the cabinet. “I can handle being unsupervised for a few minutes, alright?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean says, “Alright, big kid, keep telling yourself that,” and he leaves her alone in the kitchen and hits redial on his phone as he hurries up the stairs.

CJ picks up quickly. “Hey, Dean.”

“Been a while, kid,” Dean says, holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear. “You been keeping busy?”

CJ huffs a laugh through the line. “Something like that. You know how it goes. Hey, I’m sorry to call you again, but there’s something real weird about this case that I can’t figure out. Can I send you some info?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Dean says. “You still got my email?”

“Yeah, sending it your way now. It seemed super straightforward, before I got out here, but. There’s something weird about it. Guys going missing. The article said their hearts were taken from their bodies.”

Dean hums. “Sounds wolfy.”

There’s some rustling on the other end of the line, sorting through papers, before CJ sighs and continues, “That’s what I thought, too. But the article was misleading. People aren’t finding the bodies with no heart. They’re finding hearts with no bodies.”

“The hell?” Dean mutters, surprised. He sits down on the edge of his bed and pulls his laptop towards him to boot it up. “I didn’t even know it was possible to I.D. a body just from a friggin’ heart.”

“That’s the thing, you can’t,” CJ says. “There’s no way to identify a body just by an organ. But these hearts, where they’re being found? On the doorsteps of each victim’s mistress.”

Dean clicks on the email CJ sent him, opening the first article she’d attached. He reads through it quickly, but nothing sticks out to him any more than what she’s told him over the phone. “So each of the victims were cheating on someone, huh?” Dean asks, and CJ confirms it. “Well, shit.  _ That  _ sounds witchy.”

“I checked the first victim’s apartment for a hex bag, but I didn’t find anything,” CJ adds. “But it did take me a few days to get out there. Do you think it’s possible a witch could have gotten in there to cover their tracks?”

“It’s definitely possible, but I don’t know any witch that’s ever cared that much about covering up,” Dean says, contemplating. He clicks on the pictures CJ sent next, not even perturbed by the image of a human heart. “Yeah, werewolves are off the table for this one. That heart’s completely intact.”

They’re both quiet for a moment as Dean flips through the information he’s been sent, and as CJ sorts through her case notes. On the third picture of a heart that Dean opens, he notices something on the third chamber.

“This is weird,” CJ says, just as Dean is zooming in on the picture. “Two of the victims checked into an emergency room a week before they disappeared. Both complaining of chest pain. It looks like their results came back normal.”

Impressed, Dean says, “You got their medical records?”

“I’ve got a few connections,” CJ tells him, and he can hear the grin in her voice.

Dean pulls up the other pictures again, but the angles are different on most of them. Still, faintly, he’s able to make out markings on all of them. Victorious, Dean goes back to the original picture, and starts sketching out the marking as best as he can see.

“All of the hearts have been marked,” Dean says, as he draws. “I’ll send you back what I see, but I don’t recognize this. We’ll have to do some digging.”

“Oh, Dean, you don’t have to,” CJ tells him quickly. “You’ve already done so much!”

But Dean just waves a dismissive hand in the air even though he knows she can’t see it and says, “I ain’t offering to drive out there, I’m out of the game, I’m staying that way. But digging up some lore on one tiny ass marking, that’s easy-peasy. Hell, I’ll run it by Cas, he may recognize it right away.”

It’s quiet on the other end for a moment as CJ hesitates, but Dean doesn’t pay it any mind as he pulls his phone away from his ear and snaps a picture of his sketch. Finally, CJ says, “Cas, like. As in Castiel?”

“The one and only,” Dean says. Then he frowns. “Probably.”

“Huh. Rumor has it that he died.”

Dean fires the image off in a text to CJ and sighs. “He did. A few times. He’s back now.”

“Oh,” CJ murmurs. She laughs nervously. “You know, it’s still kind of hard to wrap my head around angels being real.”

“Trust me, I understand that, sweetheart,” Dean tells her. “And I live with one. Hey, I sent you that picture. Let me know if it looks familiar at all. I gotta go, though, I have a kid trying to build cabinets that probably needs supervision.”

Surprised, CJ says, “Oh, I didn’t know you had a kid.”

And it makes Dean blanch for a moment, because in all honesty he hadn’t even realized he’d  _ said _ that. He blinks, a little bit dazed, and says belatedly, “I don’t.”

“Oh!”

And then he hesitates, feeling flustered and clammy under his collar even though he’s not under interrogation and doesn’t even crack like this even when he is. Hastily, he continues, “Or I kind of do. I don’t know. It’s complicated, whatever. I have to go. I’ll text you what I find out.”

Dean can hear the laughter in CJ’s voice as she tells him, “Alright, I bet. Thanks, Dean,” but he hangs up before she can find some way to tease him about it.

Christ, he’s a mess. Dean’s saved the world how many fucking times now? And yet  _ this  _ is what trips him up. The uncertainty about whether or not the teenage girl he’s essentially co-parenting classifies as his daughter.

He hears the garage door rumble as it’s open, and it’s a welcome relief. It means Cas is back. Dean hurries back downstairs just as Cas pushes open the door with arms full of groceries. “There more in the car?” he asks, reaching forward to prop the door open so Cas doesn’t have to.

“Yes,” Cas answers. He pauses when he realizes there’s no counter for him to put bags down on.

“Table,” Dean instructs, and Cas goes. “Claire, up and at ‘em. We’ll get back to that when groceries are put away.”

Claire sighs in that painfully unsubtle way that all teenagers think they get away with, but she still stands up anyway and goes out to the car to help bring in groceries. There’s not much left in the Impala, because Cas is a scarily efficient grocery shopper and rarely strays from the list.

Even still. Cas is human now and, much to his disdain, he gets cravings sometimes. Dean sees a box of Cas’s favorite candy sticking out of one of the bags and grins to himself at the sight of it.

They cover the table with their bags and get to work putting everything away. Claire drags her feet slowly, so she doesn’t have to do as much, and Dean and Cas both pretend they don’t notice. They’re used to this by now, anyway. Eventually Claire gets bored of pretending she’s being helpful and plops down at one of the folding chairs, and she curiously asks Dean, “Who was on the phone?”

Dean doesn’t tense up, because he’s got no reason to act like he was doing something he shouldn’t have been doing, but he does shoot a quick glance at Cas just to see if that’s drawn any kind of reaction out of him. Cas continues to steadily put cans of soda in the fridge.

“A friend of mine,” Dean answers, and it doesn’t  _ feel _ like a lie, technically. “CJ Barrett.”

Cas’s hand hesitates, just for a second. So briefly Dean wouldn’t have even noticed if he hadn’t been looking for that exact tick. And sure enough, when Dean makes himself look up at Cas’s face, there’s a small twist in the corner of Cas’s mouth. Barely there. It makes Dean’s stomach coil anyway.

“What did she need?” Claire presses. Teenagers are endlessly nosy, Dean has learned. Even if it’s about people they’ve never even freaking met.

“Help with research,” Dean says, and he turns sharply on his heel to focus on pulling cereal out of bags and stacking them on the table. These will have to get put away when the cabinets are installed. “She just had a question about her job, and she thought I might be able to answer.”

Quietly, Cas says, “Were you able to help?”

“No,” Dean mutters. “Not yet. But I think I—there’s something. I’m gonna look it up for her. Was gonna show you, too, see if it was anything you recognized.”

“You guys are shitty whisperers,” Claire tells them.

Cas turns and frowns at her. “Don’t say shitty.”

“Oh, okay, I won’t,” Claire says sarcastically. “You know I remember that you guys hunted things before this, right? Like you don’t have to pretend I don’t know monsters exist and that there’s still people out there trying to kill them?”

Dean pauses from where he’d been crumpling up an empty plastic bag. “We aren’t trying to hide monsters from you, kid.”

Cas is quiet. He’s methodically placing vegetables into their proper drawer, and Dean thinks he’s focusing intently on the task to evade the heavy weight of Claire’s gaze as it snaps between him and Dean.

“You always leave the room any time anything monster-related comes up,” Claire points out.

Dean scratches at the underside of his jaw, at a spot he missed while shaving that he’s been too lazy to fix up until now. It’s harder that he’d expected, trying to keep a kid safe from a world full of things that go bump in the night just because. He’s tried to save kids for years now, but it’s Claire, so it’s different. And this wasn’t something he had to worry about growing up, raising Sam, because he didn’t have a choice. They were in this whether they wanted to be or not.

But here, with Claire? He and Cas have a choice. and even if they’ve never talked about it, Dean knows they’re on the same page about keeping her away from it as best as they can.

“Claire, you know I grew up hunting?” Dean says finally. Claire shakes her head. “Yeah. Seen this shit since I was four years old. God, I knew how to reassemble a handgun before I knew how to ride a bike. You wanna know how bad it sucks being the only fourteen year old at your high school of the week who doesn’t know how to ride a bike?”

Dean looks away from them. He fixes his gaze on a hole in the wall, a small spot that came from a nail that he just hasn’t patched up yet. He blinks slowly. Exhales. “My dad was a tough and scary son of a bitch. And he taught me some shit I’ll… never forget. But the thing that stuck with me for way too long? That the monster and the hunt will always be more important than me and Sammy. And even if I didn’t realize it at the time, it friggin’ sucked growing up like that. So yeah, Claire, I take those phone calls out of the room, because giving up the only life I knew kind of sucks sometimes so offering advice is all I can offer to feel useful, but I ain’t going back to hunting because this freaking life here is worth staying out, and I don’t—“

He sucks in a sharp breath. Claire and Cas are silent, on opposite sides of the room, looking at him with patience in their eyes. Dean drops his gaze. Lamely, he finishes, “I don’t want you to feel like hunting is more important to us than taking care of you.”

It’s a long time before Dean finally stops being a fucking coward and raises his head. Claire’s cheeks are blotchy and her eyes are shiny and it’s clear she’s trying not to cry, and that overwhelms the shit out of Dean so he glances at Cas quickly but Cas has got the  _ same damn expression _ on his face. Dean groans loud enough to rattle the bones of the house and covers his face with his hands. “Holy shit, stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you,” Cas lies. “I’m putting groceries away.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Dean tells him.

Cas gives him an affronted look. “That is  _ not  _ true.”

“Finish putting your damn groceries away, then,” Dean snaps, cheeks hot, and he turns his focus back to the rest of the bags. There’s mostly just shit that will have to get put away in cupboards and cabinets that aren’t up yet, so he stacks it all neatly on one side of the table to be dealt with later.

“Dean?” Claire says quietly, so Dean looks at her. She won’t catch his eye but her voice is careful as she says, “Thanks.”

Something warm spreads through him and makes his throat feel tight. “Yeah, no problem.”

Cas offers to help them with the cabinets, after everything is put away, and even though Dean’s certain he’s going to spend most of his time correcting both Cas and Claire before they actually go through with anything, he agrees because he’s hard-pressed to tell Cas no about shit like that these days. Claire crouches back down to finish fixing her cabinet, and Dean shows Cas the sketch he’d found for CJ before they get started.

“It’s a coven,” Cas says. “Ancient magic. I didn’t think it still existed.”

Dean shoots the information off to CJ, giving her a name and recommending places to look for lore about the witches, and Cas seems relieved when Dean pockets his phone again after that and turns to focus on the cabinets. Like he’s glad Dean’s not involving himself any more than an occasional answer for a question.

It dawns on him, several months too late, that it’s not just Claire that needs reassurance that Dean isn’t going to pack a bag and leave in the middle of the night to load some ghost full of iron. Cas needs that kind off stability, too.

Dean swallows the lump in his throat, and he makes a promise to Claire and Cas that he won’t say out loud. He crosses his heart and everything.

* * *

Christmas is small. Anything grander would overwhelm them all, Dean thinks, so they bunker down in the house the minute Claire’s school lets out for winter break and spend a few days sparsely decorating the house with what little decorations they can find at the thrift store. Cas brings home the ugliest, tiniest Christmas tree Dean’s ever seen in his life, and he looks so fucking proud of finding it at all that Dean sighs and goes out and buys a stand and some ornaments so they can actually display the damn thing.

There’s a few gifts under the tree. Most of them are for Claire. She wakes up earlier than she ever has on Christmas morning and drags both Dean and Cas out of bed, insisting that it’s time for presents. Most of them are wrapped in newspapers instead of real wrapping paper but none of them seem to mind. Cas curls up on the couch with a blanket around his shoulders and a cup of coffee clutched tightly between his hands, but even his usual morning grumpiness is replaced by a small smile as Claire excitedly starts handing out gifts.

Two for Cas. One for Dean. Five or six for Claire, enough that Dean doesn’t quite remember, and a few for Pete and Theresa that stay where they are. None of the presents are anything extravagant. Still, Claire’s eyes well with tears when she opens up one of Cas’s gift. With a thick voice, she tells him, “This is the ugliest pillow I’ve ever seen.”

She’s grinning. She holds it tightly to her chest. And Cas smiles, too. “I made it myself,” he tells her proudly.

“That’s why the embroidery is so bad,” Dean says conspiringly. Cas kicks at him halfheartedly.

Claire finishes her gifts, and she looks pleased enough by them that Dean lets go of the breath he’d been holding and drops his shoulders in relief. He insists Cas go next. Cas looks equal parts pleased and thrilled by the new gloves from Claire and the leather-bound journal from Dean. And Dean is self-conscious, then, when two pairs of eyes dart to him. He hadn’t expected them to get him anything at all.

It’s an apron, which makes Dean start to laugh. It’s clearly homemade. In Cas’s meticulous handwriting, the words  _ I’m Grilling the Witness!  _ are painted near the top. Dean recognizes Claire’s doodling style in the barbecue, tie, spatula, fake FBI badge, and unreasonably tall cheeseburger that surround the words.

“This is awesome,” he says, and Claire beams back at him. He wears it as he makes them breakfast, and for every time he cooks after that, too.

They spend the days leading up to New Year’s being unreasonably lazy, to all of their delight. Dean takes a few days off work. They watch so many Christmas movies that eventually Dean gets sick of the fake snow and demands they put on something better, and after that they blow through every Western Dean can get his hands on. Cas and Claire build a lopsided snowman that Dean will never admit he’s fond of. He shovels snow off of sidewalks and waves to the kids across the street who shriek in delight as they have snowball fights.

Two days before the holiday, Claire asks if she can invite friends over for New Year’s Eve. Cas is damn ecstatic about it. He goes all out, buying snacks and sodas for them, and he takes a begrudging Claire to a party store to buy some gaudy decorations that have them both giggling when Dean finds them later, hanging them up. It makes his house look like it’s stepped right out of a damn Party City magazine, but he keeps his mouth shut about it.

Dean spends the morning of New Year’s Eve patching up the small holes in the kitchen and living room from renovations, even though Claire had insisted she wouldn’t be embarrassed by it and that her friends wouldn’t care. She’s out shopping with them until later. Cas joins him, a little after noon, after Dean cracks open the paint cans, and helps Dean paint over the spackling. They didn’t do much, but Dean still cracks the sliding door after they’re done to help air it out, and Cas wraps himself up in an unreasonable number of blankets to combat the slight chill.

“You’re being dramatic,” Dean tells him, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, because you aren’t going upstairs to put a hoodie on right now since you’re cold, too,” Cas says, deadpan and accusing.

Dean scoffs. “Shut up.”

Claire and her friends make it to the house sometime after four, and they’ve got an absurd number of rented movies in their hands. In an instant, the house goes from stiflingly quiet to bursting at the seams with noise and giggles. Cas looks a little overwhelmed, so Dean claps a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Claire introduces them to her friends. Dean doesn’t remember a single one of their names.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Cas says faintly, and Claire rolls her eyes but her friends all smile at him kindly, and even if Dean’s certain he’ll never be able to tell any of them apart, he’s struck with reassurance that Claire’s got herself a good little group of friends here.

She’s old enough that neither Cas nor Dean feel like they have to supervise, and neither of them particularly want to, so they leave the girls downstairs for a few hours on their own. Cas catches Dean’s arm, when they reach the top of the stairs. He’s hesitant as he says, “I logged onto the Netflix with my computer. We could continue that show we began a few weeks ago?”

They crouch together on Cas’s bed, backs against the wall, arms nearly brushing, and Cas balances his laptop on his knees, and Dean realizes after a few episodes that this whole thing should feel a lot weirder than it does. Maybe it’s just him getting older or maybe it’s the fact that Cas is his best friend, but the more he thinks about how he  _ should  _ be freaked out, the more he realizes he doesn’t mind at all.

Dean stops Cas from playing the next episode, after they’ve watched quite a few, and eases himself off the bed. “Gonna go pick up pizza for us and the girls,” he explains. Cas closes his laptop and follows wordlessly, and Dean realizes that he doesn’t mind that, either.

The rest of the evening passes by rather unremarkably. The girls are thrilled by the pizza, eating the majority of it, and they don’t even seem to mind that Cas and Dean stay downstairs even after they’ve finished eating and watch whatever movie they’ve got on with half-interest.

Dean cracks open a six-pack about two hours to midnight, and he joins Cas at the kitchen table and splits his time between watching Cas working on some new embroidery project and watching the movie playing more closely than any of Claire’s friends.

Cas pricks his finger on his needle and swears under his breath. He’s still clumsy with them, and it makes Dean feel fond in a way he doesn’t really get. He sucks the blood droplet off his thumb and takes the beer that Dean nudges his way. “Thanks.”

“Don’t bleed on your project,” Dean says mildly.

Cas smirks. “Too late for that, I’m sure.”

Dean sighs, and he finishes his first beer. He picks absentmindedly at the label. “We’re gonna have to get you gloves or something before you cut off a finger.”

“I doubt any injury I sustain while embroidering would be significant enough that amputation would be required,” Cas says seriously.

“You’d be surprised,” Dean says, nonsensically, because he can’t think of anything better. Cas grins at him anyway. He’s always been able to tell when Dean’s full of shit. Dean’s lucky the guy just seems entertained by it these days.

Cas keeps working. Dean gets up and wanders aimlessly. He checks the upstairs even though he’s not really sure what he’s looking for. Comes back downstairs and cleans up some of the garbage he can reach without getting in the way. He puts the pizza away.

He remembers, suddenly, a New Year’s Eve when Sam was Claire’s age. And it knocks the wind right out of his chest.

Dean grabs another beer, and walks wordlessly out the front door.

It hasn’t snowed in a few days, so all that’s left is the dredges from the last storm and a slight chill that threatens another snowfall. Even so, it’s not cold enough that Dean feels like he can’t stay out here, and he’s grateful for that. He leans against the railing on the porch and pops open his beer. It warms him up as it goes down his throat.

He’d never cared for New Year’s. Neither had Sam. It was just the start of another year they knew they’d spend on the road. Dean thinks that must be why it gets under his skin so badly this year. It has to be. He has no idea what the next year will bring.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. He takes another sip of his beer.

The front door opens quietly. 

“It’s nearly midnight.”

Dean doesn’t look; he doesn’t need to. Cas slips out the front door and shuts it gently behind him. It’s only another moment before he feels Cas’s arm brush against his own as Cas joins him leaning against the porch railing. Above them, people have already started lighting fireworks.

“I figured,” Dean says. He takes a sip of his beer.

“You don’t want to be inside for it?” Cas asks him.

Dean glances back, through the front window, where he can see Claire and her friends curled up on the couch and on the ground, throwing cheese puffs at one another and laughing. Not a single one of them pays attention to the tv, slowly preparing to count down to the new year. “Nah,” Dean says. “Figured I’d let Claire and her friends celebrate without supervision for just a minute or two.”

Cas hums at that. Their arms brush together again. Dean wonders how he can feel it at all, through the layers he’s wearing and the thickness of Cas’s winter coat. Then again, he’s always been hyper-aware of where Cas was. Where Cas is. He used to think it had something to do with Cas being an angel. A presence literally more complex than anything Dean could even try to comprehend. Now, though. Now Cas is human. And it’s just habit, Dean thinks. Knowing where Cas is.

“How are you, Dean?” Cas murmurs.

More fireworks light off, and Dean is hundreds of miles away. He’s some fifteen years ago and he’s seven months ago and his hands smell like gunpowder lighting off stolen fireworks and his fingers are covered in dirt from digging a grave that Sam isn’t even in. But he’s also got one foot inside the house, one eye on Claire and the other on Cas as he watches them and finds something that makes this whole thing worth it, and if Dean’s being honest, he doesn’t get how he can feel like he’s so many things at once. He’s nothing. He’s everything.

Some days are worse than others. And others are like today.

“Do you think Sam would like it here?” Dean asks. The words tumble out of his mouth.

If Cas is surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he just peers curiously at Dean, the way he nearly always does, and prods, “Do I think Sam would like Bennett, Colorado? Or do I think he would like the home you’ve created?”

“Both,” Dean says. “Either. All of it.”

Cas sighs. Dean wonders if he’s even aware he’s done it, or it’s just habit now after a few years of putting up with Dean’s shit. It doesn’t matter either way. Cas does it, and Dean is comforted by it. Finally, Cas answers Dean’s question, and his voice is steady as he murmurs, “I do.”

Dean laughs, feeling a little bit helpless. He wraps his hand around the railing just so he says something to ground him. “To which one?”

Grinning, Cas tells him, “Both. Either. All of it.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Dean mutters, but he’s smiling too.

“You miss him,” Cas says. It’s not question. Like so many things in their lives, this is just something Cas knows about Dean without having to pry it out of him.

Dean exhales slowly out of the corner of his mouth. His breath fogs up the air in front of him, and he focuses on that. Flexing his fingers, he agrees, “Every day of my damn life.”

Cas hums. He mimics Dean’s position, though he wraps both hands around the railing, and bears down on it for a moment. Calculating. Considering. Inside, Dean faintly hears the tv announce that they’re one minute away from the new year. “Do you regret it?”

“No,” Dean answers automatically. “I don’t know. I did, maybe. At first. But it was Sam’s choice. And. If it’s the last thing he chose, I can’t… It was Sammy, you know? In the end. So I understand it. But I still. Fucking miss him.”

“I miss him, too,” Cas admits. His voice barely carries across the space between them.

“Do you regret it?” Dean questions. He catches Cas’s gaze. “I mean. Do you wish you hadn’t come back human?”

Cas opens his mouth, surprised, and closes it just as fast. He blinks.

On the other side of the window, the girls start yelling over each other in excitement, starting their own countdown with thirty seconds to go.

“No,” Cas says finally. He looks surprised by his own answer. “I… I don’t think I do. I’m not certain I would have chosen this, for myself. But. None of the glory I created, none of the revelations I saw, none of the victories I led my brethren to. None of it… holds a candle to  _ this. _ This life. Claire. This house. You.”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath.

“I thought I loved humanity before,” Cas muses. Dean doesn’t look away from him. “And I did. But I had no idea it would  _ feel  _ like this.”

“Ten seconds!” Claire yells.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Dean blurts out. “For what it’s worth.”

_ Five. _

Cas smiles.

_ Four. _

“I know, Dean,” he says, and he takes a half step closer to Dean.

_ Three. _

Fireworks start going off, loud and boisterous. Excitable kids, eager for the rush that comes with lighting them up.

_ Two. _

For a reason Dean will be unable to determine, several nights from now even as he thinks about it until he falls asleep, Dean turns to look back up at the sky. Several nights from now, he won’t even remember what colors they were.

_ One. _

“Happy New Year, Dean,” Cas murmurs, and he presses his lips gently to Dean’s cold cheek.

_ Zero. _

Cheers erupt from inside. The girls shriek as they open a bottle of soda that was shaken just a bit too much. The sky is full of swirling colors and the streets are full of echoing booms.

Dean looks back at Cas a half-second later, and Cas just gives him a small smile. He reaches forward, taking Dean’s half-finished beer out of his hands, then pushes away from the railing with ease. Human. And damn good at it, too.

“I’m gonna go check on the girls,” Cas says, and he drinks Dean’s beer as he goes inside.

The front door opens. Cas laughs in startled surprise as a flurry of teenage girls shout,  _ Happy New Year!  _ at him. The door closes softly behind him as he goes inside. And Dean, again, stands alone in the cold, counting the breaths he takes.

“Happy New Year, Cas,” Dean says, to the empty porch. To the whole damn world. He huffs around a laugh. The air fogs up around it. And it’s only another moment, then, before Dean pushes himself away from the railing and goes back into his home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys what the freak i'm so blown away by the reception this little story is receiving and the love you leave in comments WHAT THE FUCK! i love you all!!
> 
> thanks for your patience with this chapter, i had to do some revamping to my outline and as a result it left me debating how i wanted this bit to play out. it ended up about 2k words longer than i expected it to, though, so hopefully that makes it worth it!
> 
> beta'd by my wives cait and sabi, i owe them the literal air that i breathe, this would be incoherent without them
> 
> LAST NOTE sorry this is a long one! tw for mild, implied homophobia. canon-typical, and nothing explicitly stated, but the implication is still there. a more-spoilery account can be found in the end notes if you want to know what you're getting into before you get there, but please take care of yourself first!
> 
> thank you<3

They don’t really run into the high school, because both of them know it would cause more of a scene than is probably necessary, but it’s a damn near thing. It’s an unspoken thing between them, that they get there as soon as possible. Dean can’t stop hearing the voice of the principal through Cas’s tinny speakerphone, saying,  _ We need you to come in as soon as possible. It’s about your daughter, Claire. _

Cas’s eyes are wild, and his hair is a mess from where he’d kept pulling on it the entire drive over. Dean reaches out and grabs him by the wrist before they get too much farther into the school, tugging him back. He’s a mess. Dean straightens Cas’s jacket for him and grips his shoulder with his free hand until Cas finally looks at him.

“Breathe,” Dean reminds him.

“You first,” Cas retorts and, yeah, that’s fair. Dean’s pretty sure he looks just as frazzled as Cas does.

Cas leads them to the front office, and to the kind-looking secretary who smiles at them even though Dean’s sure they’re quite a sight. He realizes, probably a bit too late, that he’s still holding on to Cas’s wrist.

“Hi, there,” the secretary says. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re here for Claire,” Cas tells her. It all comes out in a rush as he trips over his words. “She’s, uh. We got a call from the principal. We had to come. We’re. I’m—”

“You’re Claire Novak’s parents?” the secretary asks.

Cas pauses. Takes a deep breath. He flexes his hand; Dean can feel it in the tendons of the wrist that he’s holding onto like a lifeline. “Yes,” he says finally.

“She’s fine,” the secretary tells them, and Dean lets out the breath they’d both been holding. “She’s sitting in the principal’s office, I’ll let her know you’re here.”

Dean’s chest tightens. “Principal’s office? What happened?”

The secretary glances between them, keeping her expression even. “There was a fight,” she says carefully. “No one got too hurt, from what I understand. Administration will have to talk to you about the rest.”

“The rest?” Cas repeats.

“Mr. Novak?” calls a new voice, and Dean and Cas both turn to face her. Claire’s principal. Standing in her doorway calmly. She beckons them back. “It’s good to see you again. You can follow me.”

Cas moves forward quickly, and Dean follows hot on his tail. They stop to shake the principal’s hand, though Cas cranes his neck to try and catch a glimpse of Claire sitting inside the office. “Principal Qian,” Cas greets. “Is Claire alright?”

“I’m sure she’s had better days,” Qian says dryly. She turns to Dean. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

He grasps her hand. “Dean,” he introduces.

“Claire,” Cas says finally, relief palpable in his tone, and the principal shifts to the side to let Cas into her office. Dean dutifully follows, and Qian closes the door soundly behind them. Claire sits in her chair, trying her damnedest not to look at Cas or Dean as they come in. She doesn’t pull away when Cas sits down next to her and puts a hand on her arm, though, and Dean thinks that’s progress at least. Mascara is smeared down her face from where she’d been crying. “Are you hurt?”

Claire’s gaze darts to Dean. He was in enough fights in high school that he recognizes the nervous look in her eye. If she is hurt, she won’t say anything about it now. She ducks her head and murmurs, “No, he didn’t hurt me.”

“He?” Dean demands.

“Would you like to take a seat, Mr. Novak?” Qian cuts in, and she gestures to the other empty seat next to Claire.

“Oh, I’m not,” Dean starts, but Claire shoots him a look that makes him pause and Cas unsubtly kicks at his shin, and Dean’s not sure what story the school’s been fed but he knows when it’s time to shut his piehole so he snaps his mouth closed and sits his ass down. “Right, so, what happened?”

Qian looks between the three of them before leaning forward in her chair. She steeples her fingers. “There was a problem in Claire’s PE class today, between her and another student. A fight broke out before the teacher could deescalate it. From what we understand, Claire threw the first punch.”

“Claire,” Cas says softly. Not berating. “What happened?”

“There were a few teachers in there that were able to put a stop to it before anyone got really hurt, but,” Qian starts.

Cas bluntly says, “I asked Claire what happened.”

Qian closes her mouth with a raised eyebrow.

And, shit. Dean went to enough high schools that he knows a parent pissing the principal off is a straight gateway to the kid’s life at school being hell, so he leans forward and says easily, “Sorry, he’s sorry. We, uh, really care about. Open communication in our house.” Claire hides her disbelieving snort under a cough, and Dean tries not to sigh. “And Cas is just a little on edge today, fuse is a bit shorter than usual. Don’t mind him.”

“Sure,” Qian says easily. “Claire, you can tell your dad what happened, if you want.”

Claire’s face pales. She drops her gaze to her hands, writhing together in her lap. Dean can barely hear her when she murmurs, “He was bothering me. So I took a swing at him.”

“Bothering you how?” Dean cuts in. “Harassing you?”

“Jesus, no, nothing like that,” Claire says, and she rolls her eyes. She wipes at her cheeks then looks down in surprise at her fingers, like she didn’t expect that she’d be crying.

Cas frowns. “Did he say something to you, that upset you?” he asks.

Too quickly, Claire says, “No! No.”

Dean looks at Qian. Her mouth is in a thin line, but she doesn’t look angry at Claire. He’s starting to get the feeling that whatever kid Claire hit had it coming.

“Brody fought back, so he’s also facing suspension,” Qian says, and she winces sympathetically. “Claire, right now, because you initiated the fight, you’re facing a weeklong suspension. Unless there’s something you want to tell us that Brody did, then we can reevaluate.”

Claire is quiet for a long time. She pushes some of her hair out of her face, and Dean realizes that most of it has fallen out of the braid she’d had it in earlier today. Cas breaks the stillness when he shifts suddenly to grab a tissue off of Qian’s desk. He offers it to Claire quietly, and she takes it with a small look of surprise. She wipes the ruined makeup off her face. “The fight was my fault,” she says finally. “I started it.”

“Claire,” Cas tries to say.

“It was my fault,” she interrupts, and her gaze snaps to Qian’s. “So does that mean I’m suspended now, or what?”

It’s quiet again, for a tense moment. Qian purses her lips. Claire doesn’t back down from the challenge. Eventually, Qian sighs, and she pulls some paperwork out of her desk, and says, “You will be suspended for the remainder of this week, starting now. Your parents will need to take you home. School’s out on Monday, so you’ll come back to classes next Tuesday. A parent will need to drop you off and sign for you when you come back. Miss Ross at the front office will correspond with your teachers to collect the work you’ll miss, although since the new quarter just started, there likely won’t be much of it. We’ll have you meet with the guidance counselor on Monday before class, too, so try to come early if you can.”

“Great,” Claire mutters.

Qian looks to Dean and Cas. “Do either of you have any questions for me?” They shake their heads. “Right, well. You’re welcome to take Claire out to your car now. Mr. Novak, if you’d like to follow me to the front office, I’ll just have you sign these forms there and we’ll make some copies for your records.”

Cas goes with the principal, back out to the front office, and Dean’s left alone with Claire, who won’t even look at him. She’s still got some makeup smeared under her eyes, so Dean sighs and grabs a tissue, too. “Here, c’mere.”

She shuffles forward and lets him reach up, cleaning the rest of the mascara from her face. She still doesn’t meet his eye, but that’s fine with him. Dean’s mostly looking for any bruising on her face. There’s none that he can see, though her eyes are a little puffy from crying, and that’s manageable, at least. He drops his gaze to Claire’s hands, still writhing together in her lap. Her knuckles are red.

“Show me how you punched,” Dean says with a sigh.

Claire sucks in a sharp breath. “What?”

Dean keeps his expression even as he says, “Listen, we know you threw a punch. I’m not gonna be the one to yell at you for that. It would be pretty hypocritical for me to do that. But I think you hurt your hand, and I think you’re acting like you didn’t because you don’t want Cas to be upset with you, so I’m giving you a chance to show me now how you hit this kid so we can take care of this before he gets back, alright?”

There’s a curious, uncertain look on her face, like she’s not quite sure she can trust Dean on this yet despite the fact she’s lived with him for several freaking months now, but eventually she raises her hand and forms a fist. “Like that.”

“Right,” Dean says. “Okay, well. Second thing we’re gonna do once we get home. After you and Cas have a little heart to heart about this. We’re going into the garage, and I’m gonna show you how to throw a punch the right way, okay?”

“Okay,” Claire says skeptically.

Dean nods to himself. “Okay. You wanna fix your hair before we get outta here?”

Claire’s gaping at him like she doesn’t really understand the game he’s playing. Dean doesn’t know how to explain to her that he’s been where she’s at right now, sitting in that chair across from a principal with a bruise spreading against his jaw. He doesn’t know how to explain that he’d leave this room with a torn shirt or red eyes and everyone would know and how that made him feel worse than catching knuckles by the teeth.

And it’s different, for Claire. It’s better, at least, or he hopes it is, because at least someone showed up for her. He’d have to drive himself back to the motel if he was stupid enough to get caught in a fight.

But she does fix her hair, and Dean waits patiently while she does, and when she’s almost done with the braid, he finally says, “There’s better ways to settle things, you know. Besides starting a fight.”

“Why?” Claire asks, defensive. “Because I’m a girl?”

Dean blinks at her. He doesn’t know what to do with the pressure sitting on his chest. “Claire, you know how many girls have beaten me up? That’s not why. It’s ‘cause you’re Cas’s kid, okay? He wants you safe. So there are better ways.”

She’s quiet for a long time. Eventually, she stands, and she swings her backpack over her shoulder. Dean stands, too, and follows when Claire leads the way out of the office. He barely catches it when she tells him, “Thought it was hypocritical of you to tell me not to fight.”

“It is,” Dean agrees. He holds the door open for her when she walks out, and she shivers in the January air when they get outside. “That’s why I’m not saying it for me.”

He turns the heat on, when they get in the Impala. Claire wraps her arms around herself and stares out the window. Not for the first time, Dean wonders if there’s more he should be doing. He’s in the middle of fiddling with the volume of the stereo when Cas finally comes out, hands full of papers. He sits down heavy in the passenger seat. “Let’s go.”

“Cas,” Claire starts, and her voice catches. Cas turns to look at her, and her lip wobbles dangerously for a moment before she drops her head again. Dean watches them in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry.”

Cas looks at her quietly. She doesn’t look back up at him. “I know you are,” he says finally. He turns back to Dean. “Let’s just go home.”

It’s a quiet drive home. Claire fidgets in her seat, and Cas absentmindedly thumbs at the papers in his lap. Dean doubts Cas even really understands what the suspension paperwork is, or why he needed a copy of it, but Cas has gotten almost frighteningly good at blending in, which means he doesn’t question things like that anymore.

Dean parks the Impala outside when they get home, and both Cas and Claire quietly shuffle out of the car. Claire goes inside without looking back, but Cas lingers back as Dean pulls himself out of the driver’s seat. “I don’t know what to say to her,” Cas murmurs.

“You asking me?” Dean says, raising an eyebrow. Cas nods, painfully sincere, and all the self-deprecation gets knocked out of Dean like he’s the one who got swung at earlier today. He sighs, closing the car door soundly behind him. “Shit, Cas, I don’t know. Are you upset with her?”

Cas frowns at the ground. “I’m worried,” he admits. “That something is wrong and that she’s trying to defend herself. Or that she is unhappy at home and finding an outlet at school that is violent. I don’t want her to feel like she… like she can’t feel this way. But I don’t want her to get hurt.”

“Tell her that,” Dean says with a shrug. “She might not believe you, because she’s a kid, but. She’s expecting you to yell at her.”

This seems to genuinely startle Cas. “Should I be yelling at her?”

Dean thinks about his own fights in high school. Thinks about how sometimes he started them just because he wanted his dad to come home and yell. Come home and  _ see  _ him. He thinks about how it was worse, sometimes, when his dad just acted like nothing was wrong. And then he thinks about Claire, whose life isn’t exactly a carbon-copy of Dean’s but is pretty close, all things considered, and he thinks about how in all the months she’s lived here all he’s wanted is for someone to do better by her than John did by him. He claps Cas on the shoulder and says, “Honestly? It might be what she’s looking for. But I don’t think it would make either of you feel any better afterwards.”

“Yeah,” Cas agrees. He pauses again, once they’re inside, and glances at the stairs. Claire’s already up in her room. Cas gives Dean a tired smile. “Come running if you hear someone throwing things.”

Dean laughs. “Go get ‘em, slugger.”

They missed lunch, because of this. Not by much, but enough that Dean’s stomach is rumbling. He’s not sure Claire had a chance to eat, either, so he goes into the kitchen instead of up to his bedroom and sets to work assembling some sandwiches. He responds to Theresa’s concerned text, when it comes through, letting her know Claire is fine and apologizing for hauling ass out of work earlier.

He finishes the sandwiches before Cas comes back downstairs. His phone chimes with another text from Theresa, telling him to stay home the rest of the day, and Dean sighs and wonders what the hell to do with the rest of the day off. He tries to waste time waiting for them to come down by cleaning up, but even that doesn’t take too long, and he’s left tapping his foot against the floor and debating whether or not to keep waiting.

Impatience wins out. He picks up the plates and carries them carefully up the stairs. Claire’s bedroom door is slightly ajar, and Dean pauses when he hears Cas still in there.

“...is that I want you to be safe, right?” he’s saying. Dean can’t see Claire, but he imagines she’s nodding. “If someone comes at you first, of course, we want you to protect yourself. But if it’s not there yet? There are other ways to defend yourself that don’t involve you putting your weight behind your fist.”

Claire snorts, and mumbles something Dean doesn’t quite catch.

“Who were you defending, then?” Cas asks.

Dean takes another step closer. He knows he should feel bad, eavesdropping, and that he should back off before Claire realizes he’s there and clams up, but he can’t help but be curious. Can’t help but feel a bit protective.

Claire hesitates. She sounds uncertain when she says, “No one.”

“Claire.”

“Cas,” she mimics. Then Dean hears her sigh. “It was stupid, okay? It shouldn’t have even been a big deal. I just. Brody was being an asshole, and I didn’t even think. So I just… he was just being an asshole.”

“But not to you?” Cas prods. It’s quiet for a beat. “Claire?”

Claire doesn’t respond.

Cas sighs. “Claire, Principal Qian told me that another student heard Brody say something about Dean and I. Is that true? Is that what happened?”

Dean freezes.

“Damn it, Heather,” Claire mutters.

Cas takes another deep breath. Dean focuses on counting seconds in between it so he doesn’t do something stupid like start panicking. He doesn’t even know why he feels like he  _ should  _ be panicking. After a moment, Cas says, “Dean and I, you know, we aren’t…”

“I know,” Claire says. “But. Kids at school don’t. They see you together. They see you with me. And they. Jump to conclusions. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Cas asks her. “You're not the one that’s jumping to conclusions. You're not the one… that said hateful comments during classes. That’s what happened, isn’t it? This… Brody, he said something hateful? About Dean? About me?”

“He doesn’t even know you,” Claire explodes, defensively, and she’s loud enough now that Dean thinks he’d be able to hear her even if he weren’t standing at the top of the stairs. “He doesn’t know! And he doesn’t even know me, and he’s just another asshole rich kid who thinks he’s got it made, and he was talking shit, so yeah, I hit him. Because he doesn’t know you. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know how you take care of me, so he shouldn’t get to say shit.”

“Claire,” Cas says, placating.

“He doesn’t know you,” she repeats, more firmly.

Cas is quiet for long enough that Dean starts wondering if he should let himself in. He’s still debating when Cas finally says, “You’re right. He doesn’t know me. So his opinion of me doesn’t matter to me at all.”

Claire sounds like she’s crying again, when she says, “But what about Dean?’

Dean’s chest feels tight, and Cas goes, “It’s up to you if you want to tell him about this. I don’t want to make that choice for you.”

“Will he be mad?” Claire asks. Her voice is so damn small. Dean’s reminded again, so fast his head is spinning, that Claire’s really just a kid. She’s just a  _ kid,  _ and she’s not his kid in any legal way that matters, but she is in other ways Dean can’t even begin to wrap his head around. And for a moment he’s breathless under the weight of that. Aching over the thought of Claire not wanting him to be upset with him.

It’s a responsibility and a love and an ache that Dean can feel every time he takes a breath, nestled between his ribs and his lungs. The same kind of thing he felt taking care of Sammy when they were kids. Something he hasn’t felt since Sam turned 18 and drove to California without checking the rearview mirror.

“Not about what you did,” Cas promises her. And Dean is relieved that Cas gets it. That Cas knows him so well he can say this with certainty and know it’s true.

Dean shoulders himself and knows he can’t stay put any longer, and when he walks to Claire’s room, he tries to make his steps heavier so they hear him coming. It’s quiet when he knocks his elbow tentatively on the open door.

“Come in,” Claire says.

She’s hugging Cas, and they’re both sitting on her bed. It makes Dean’s insides squeeze. Still, Claire lights up when she sees the plates in his hands, and she sits up eagerly. Dean says, “Figured you might be hungry. Got tired of waiting for you to come down. Sandwich?”

Claire takes her place greedily, and Cas gives him a thankful smile when Dean passes him his. He watches, silent, as Claire slides off her bed and sits down cross-legged on her bedroom floor, digging in. And he keeps watching when Cas slips down and joins her. Claire grins at him like she can’t believe he’d actually sit on the ground with her. Then they both look up at Dean, and there’s an unspoken question in Claire’s eyes, and Dean’s own plate is downstairs but it’s not like he’s gonna tell the kid  _ no,  _ so he goes back down just to grab it and bring it back, and they both smile at him when he joins them.

* * *

Cas grounds Claire for the week that she’s suspended, much to Claire’s chagrin, but they all realize pretty quickly that Cas’s definition of grounded barely counts for anything. Claire stays home during the school day, and Cas stays with her, and Dean goes to work, and when he comes home nothing has really changed.

Claire does, eventually, tell him what this Brody kid said to her. Dean takes her out to the garage like he promised he would and shows her how to throw a real punch. They spend a few nights out there, when Claire asks if he can show her some more stuff, and he makes her promise she won’t use them at school again before showing her some of the shit he learned when he was half her age.

“Thank you,” Cas says to Dean, one night after he and Claire have come back inside and she’s excused herself to the bathroom to shower. Dean looks at him in surprise. “For teaching her. I think it makes her feel better.”

Dean just shrugs it off. “She just wants to feel useful. I get that.”

And Cas puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezes tight, and he says around a smile, “Yes, I’m certain that you do.”

They both breathe a sigh of relief when Claire goes back to school on Tuesday and makes it through without an incident. Cas picks her up and calls to tell Dean they’re having pizza for dinner to celebrate, and instructs him to pick it up on the way home, so Dean does.

“You guys are doofs,” Claire tells them, when Dean brings the pizza home, but she digs in like any teenager would, and she looks pleased that they cared enough to do something silly like this for her.

Cas comes back to work with him on Wednesday, and Dean’s grateful for it. The days that Cas comes with him are some of his favorite. Those days barely feel like work, spent laughing with Theresa as they tease Cas or showing him something new in the garage or in the front. 

He’s planted his ass on Dean’s workbench for the day, like he owns the place, looking at his phone instead of helping Dean with this engine replacement. The radio is on, playing some song Dean doesn’t recognize, and he’s pretty sure Cas changed the station when he wasn’t looking, but he’s not in any hurry to call him out on it. When the song ends, Cas announces, “Maggie would like to have us over for dinner this weekend.”

“Hand me the motor mounts, will you?” Dean grumbles. He sticks out an expectant hand and curls his hand when Cas drops the mounts into his palm. It takes him a moment to remember Cas said something, so he says belatedly, “Maggie?”

He can practically  _ hear  _ the withering look Cas gives him. “Our neighbor, Dean.”

“We have a lot of neighbors, Cas.”

“You’ve met her and her daughters multiple times,” Cas reminds him. He sighs before Dean can make some comment about how he can’t be expected to remember everyone he ever meets. “They live right across the street from us.”

Dean opens his mouth to ask Cas for a wrench, but Cas is already passing it his way. “Thanks.”

“Anyway. Maggie has been telling me about her chicken enchilada soup,” Cas continues. “She says it’s to die for. I tried asking her how to make it, but she’s insisting on cooking it for us. If we like it enough, she’ll give us the recipe.”

“Okay,” Dean says distractedly. “You got those bolts I handed you earlier?”

Cas climbs off the bench and comes to stand next to Dean, cupping the bolts in his hand. Dean takes one and sets to work. “So? Will this weekend work?”

“For what?” Dean asks.

“Dean,” Cas says impatiently, and he closes his fist around the bolts and childishly pulls away when Dean tries to reach for another one. Affronted, Dean finally looks at him. “Were you even listening? Dinner? Soup? This weekend?”

“Christ, yeah, that’s fine,” Dean says. “It’s not like either of us have other plans.”

Cas frowns. “No, but are you sure? Your birthday is on Monday.”

That startles Dean so bad he nearly hits his head against the hood of the car. “What? So? Monday isn’t the weekend.”

“No, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want to do something for your birthday,” Cas says. “In case you wanted to celebrate when we all had time off.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s just another day, Cas, not like I’m winning the lottery and bringing home a million bucks. Now can you hand me the fucking bolts, please? Some of us are working here.”

“Oh, is that what you were trying to do?” Cas deadpans, but he hands them over anyway. “Alright, well. I’m telling Maggie yes to dinner.”

One of the bolts slips from Dean’s fingers and clatters to the ground. He swears under his breath, but Cas is stooping down and picking it up with ease before Dean can even really blink. Cas offers it back to him. “Hold onto it. So I won’t drop it again.”

Cas nods. In his periphery, Dean can see Cas shuffling back and forth uncertainly.

Dean sighs again and says, “Alright, spit it out.”

“Spit what out?”

“Whatever’s got you dancing on your feet like you’re about to piss yourself,” Dean says, and Cas scowls at him. “Seriously, dude, what’s up?”

Cas sighs. “I’m debating on whether or not it’s rude to ask you to make dessert for dinner when it’s so close to your birthday.”

Dean huffs around a laugh. “You too good to bake now?”

“I don’t think Maggie and her daughters would take well to being poisoned by my baking,” Cas says darkly.

“Dude, you aren’t that bad.”

Cas drops another bolt into Dean’s hand, then leans into his space to peer at the engine Dean’s replacing. He points and says, “That bell housing is at an angle.” Dean swears again, moving to fix it, and Cas goes on, “And just the other day, when I tried to make cookies, Claire told me yours taste better.”

“Since when did we start taking a teenager’s opinion as the Word of God?” Dean asks. “She’s a kid, Cas, don’t take it to heart.”

He shuffles his feet again, still uncertain. “I suppose I could try again, to make dessert.’

There’s a frown on Cas’s face that’s so damn sad, Dean knows it’s a guilt trip even as he falls for it. He drops his head back and looks at the ceiling and tells Cas, “Alright, well. I can help. Supervise, or whatever.”

Cas grins at him, smug. Bastard got exactly what he wanted. Dean looks away from him before he can do something stupid like smile back.

“You know, you’re here so often, Theresa’s gonna ask if she can put you on the payroll,” Dean tells him, when Cas hands him a different wrench without being asked. Cas huffs out a laugh. “I’m serious!”

“I know you are,” Cas tells him. “That’s why I’m laughing.”

Dean straightens up and wipes his greasy fingers on his coveralls. He raises an eyebrow at Cas. “So, then, what? You don’t wanna get paid? You too good for a real job and a fancy paycheck now?”

“I thought you told me I didn’t have to get a job,” Cas shoots back. His phone chimes with another text. He frowns when he reads it.

“That was months ago. Do you take everything I say to heart?”

Distracted, Cas answers, “Almost always,” and Dean’s system shuts down for a second so he can try and deal with  _ that.  _ “Maggie responded. She just remembered her daughter has a basketball tournament in Denver this weekend, so she’s wondering if we can plan something else.”

“You know our schedule better than I do,” Dean says. And he walks away, quickly, before Cas can catch sight of the way his face has turned red for reasons he can’t figure out.

* * *

The rest of the week goes by, as it always does. Claire stays out of trouble. Dean gets back into the swing of things at work. They don’t have dinner with the neighbors but they do make their own soup, and Claire laughs so hard she snorts when Cas drops the ladle into the pot and splatters it all over Dean’s new cabinets. It’s a good weekend, and it puts some pep in Dean’s step even when Monday rolls around and he hauls his sorry ass out of bed to head to work.

Dean’s whistling as he opens up shop when Theresa yanks the door open and barks at him, “Now, what the hell are you doing here, boy?”

He blinks. “Uh. Opening?”

“You a comedian now?” Theresa asks. She plucks the broom out of his hands, and Dean makes an affronted noise. “I mean, why are you working today?”

“Because it’s Monday,” Dean reminds her. “Last I checked, I worked every Monday.”

Theresa levels him with an unimpressed look. “Not every Monday is your birthday, Dean. We made an exception for today. You’re not sticking your hands in cars all day when there are people at home that want to celebrate you.”

“Ther, I’d have all night with them once I got home from my shift,” Dean protests.

“I know you aren’t arguing with me when I’m giving you time off,” Theresa says. “Am I going to have to drive you home, or you good to get there yourself?”

It’s clearly a battle he won’t win, and Dean’s fought enough fights to recognize when it’s time to throw in the towel. Still, even as he changes back out of his coveralls and pulls his lunch out of the fridge to take back home, he feels bad. He hesitates by the desk. “Are you sure you don’t need me today? Swear, I haven’t really celebrated a birthday in years. It’s just another day.”

Theresa’s expression softens. Dean wonders what she’s seeing in him right now. “It ain’t another day to that family of yours,” she says finally. “Even if it’s nothing to you.”

So Dean loads himself into his work truck, but he pauses before he sticks the key in the ignition, and he tries to figure out what comes next. Cas is at home, but Claire’s still at school. She’ll be there for the rest of the day. And Dean doesn’t know what to do with days off. He fills them with working around the house, or running errands, or cleaning up after Cas and Claire.

And it’s. Weird. It’s hard. Having a birthday without his brother around.

Dean takes a slow breath in through his nose. He exhales out his mouth. Some shit he saw on tv, or something, a technique that’s supposed to make him feel better. He’s almost surprised when it does, so he does it again. And a few more times, until he finally feels like starting the truck isn’t the hardest thing he’s ever gonna have to do.

It’s a seven hour drive to Stull Cemetery. Dean won’t make the drive today, but he knows exactly how to get there. And he almost wants to. He closes his eyes instead. Starts the truck, like he’s done a hundred times before. And he drives himself home.

The house is quiet. Cas is in his room, when Dean finds him, and he looks surprised to see Dean standing in his doorway. He’s reading a battered copy of Slaughterhouse Five. Dean isn’t even sure where they got it from, but he knows Cas got it out of his room. “Dean. What are you doing home?”

“Theresa gave me the day off,” Dean says. “How’s reading?”

Cas sticks a bookmark in between the pages—some receipt he grabs off of his nightstand—and he puts the book down beside him. “I’m enjoying it. You like this one, right?”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean tells him with a shrug. “Hey, I think I’m just gonna veg out for a bit. Probably binge-watch something. Just wanted to let you know I was here so you didn’t think someone strange was wandering around the house.”

“Oh, I’m hardly worried about someone strange,” Cas says seriously. “You’re in this house every day.”

Dean gives him a fake laugh, and Cas responds with a genuine grin of his own. “Alright, smartass. Yell if you need anything, I guess. Oh, and if you wanna let me know when you leave to go get Claire, I can go with you.”

Cas blinks at him like he doesn’t really get what Dean’s saying. “You want to come with me to pick up Claire from school?”

“Uh, yeah?” Dean says. He scratches at the back of his neck, feeling awkward about offering now, but he can’t take it back. He doesn’t want to, anyway. “Am I not allowed to now?”

“No one is stopping you,” Cas says matter of factly. “I just didn’t think you’d want to.”

Dean huffs, embarrassed. “Well. I mean, I do. But I don’t have to. It’s whatever. Just. If you want the company, I guess. And if Claire isn’t too cool to be seen with me anymore.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you know when I’m leaving, Dean.”

The moment sits between them like it’s waiting for something else to be said. Dean swallows around the lump in his throat. Cas’s eyes are on him, gentle and kind, and Dean doesn’t really know what to do about that. “Right. Well. Okay, cool.”

“Dean,” Cas calls, right as Dean turns to leave. Dean looks back at him. “Happy Birthday.”

“Oh,” Dean says. He honestly hadn’t expected Cas to remember. It feels nice, that Cas did. He fights back another smile. “Yeah. Thanks, Cas.”

  
  


He spends the rest of the day alternating between lazing in bed halfheartedly watching some series on Netflix and pacing the floor level of the house like he might find something to do down there. He and Cas eat lunch together, knees brushing as they sit on the couch and watch some rerun of Judge Judy for Cas’s entertainment. Dean pretends he doesn’t care about it as much as he does.

Eventually Cas goes back to his room, but he returns a minute later with his book in his hands, and he sits and reads while Dean watches tv. It’s nice. One of the calmer ways Dean’s spent his birthdays, for sure. He can’t even remember what he was doing this time last year, but he knows it was nothing like this.

Dean’s not sure when he falls asleep, but one moment he’s watching Judge Judy tear into some landlord try to scam a tenant out of a security deposit, and the next time he blinks his eyes open there’s two people he doesn’t recognize cooking on the screen. He wipes groggily at his eyes.

“When did I fall asleep?” he mumbles. But Cas isn’t sitting next to him anymore. Dean blinks at the empty space, then pulls his phone out of his pocket and groans when he sees the time. “Dammit. Bastard was supposed to take me with him to get Claire.”

There’s nothing he can do about it now, but he still grumbles about it for a bit while he putters around the house and cleans up what little mess there is to be tidied. They should be back soon, and Dean wonders if he could convince them to all go out to a movie together. It’s been a long damn time since he’s sat in a movie theater.

He’s switching a load into the dryer when he hears the front door open then hears Claire’s thundering footsteps as she sprints up the stairs. He yells after her, “What did we say about running in the house?”

“Don’t move!” she yells back at him, and it’s  _ so  _ not the response Dean was expecting that he has to take a minute to wrap his head around it.

“Why can’t I move?” he calls back. “Cas?”

Claire’s bedroom door opens again. “You weren’t supposed to be here yet, you were supposed to be at work! Don’t move.”

“Just give us one moment,” Cas chimes in.

“One moment for  _ what,  _ Cas?” Dean demands.

He can hear Cas roll his eyes. “Finish switching the laundry, Dean. A moment of patience won’t kill you.”

“Yeah, you don’t know,” Dean mutters, but he does it anyway, and he even waits patiently in front of the washer and dryer.

Claire’s door opens one last time, then a second later she’s running back down the stairs again. Her voice is a lot closer when she says, “Just two more minutes, still don’t move!”

“You guys know this is my house, right?” Dean calls out.

They both shush him.

Dean taps a beat out with his foot and hums the lyrics quietly. In the living room, he can hear Cas and Claire giggling as they finish whatever they’re up to. It’s quiet for a second, then Claire lets out a startled yelp, and Cas says, “Careful.”

“Are you okay?” Dean asks.

“I thought we told you to shush,” Claire reminds him.

Dean rolls his eyes. “That’s before the teenage kid living with me yelled like something was attacking her.”

“We’re done,” Claire announces. “You can come out now.”

“Yippee,” Dean says, and he finally leaves his post. It’s not a long walk from where the washer and dryer are hooked up to the living room, so he’s there pretty quick, and he stops in his tracks when he catches sight of it. Of Claire and Cas, wearing matching party hats, with haphazard and ugly streamers taped to the wall. There’s two balloons on the ground, a mess of tape on the couch, and a pie in Cas’s hands.

“Happy Birthday!” they yell at him, the second he’s in their sight. Dean’s face turns bright red.

“What is all this?”

Claire’s beaming. “Most people call this a birthday party. You don’t have to call it that, though. Kind of a lame party when there’s only two other people there.”

“Claire,” Cas admonishes.

But Dean just laughs. He steps forward and ruffles her hair and grins at her indignant squawk. “Can’t think of anyone else I’d want at my party,” he tells them. “Thanks, kid.”

She doesn’t even protest when Dean tugs her into a hug.

On the pie, spelled out with messy, blocky pieces of pie crust, reads the words,  _ Happy Birth.  _ Dean bursts into laughter looking at it. “Whole thing didn’t fit?”

Cas frowns down at it. “Not quite. We made do.”

“It’s great,” Dean reassures him. He tugs Cas into a one-armed hug, too. And it is great. It’s damn near perfect. Dean can’t think of a better way to celebrate his birthday. “This rocks, guys. Thanks.”

They dig into the pie, right then in the middle of the day, and Dean lets Claire and Cas force him into a party hat of his own. He doesn’t even protest when they start to sing to him, even though it’s horribly off-tune and Cas can’t quite get the rhythm right. They hand him two presents, wrapped in Christmas paper that Cas proudly tells Dean he found in a clearance bin. Claire gives him a thick woven bracelet that she learned how to make from her friends. Cas gives him a mixtape.

“It’s not much,” Cas says, apologetic.

Dean shakes his head. He holds them both tightly in his hands and lets them ground him. “Shut up. They’re awesome.”

“We’ll do better next year,” Cas promises, and Dean’s stomach flips at the thought.

Claire helps Dean tie the bracelet on, when he asks. She looks almost shy. Her voice is quiet when she says, “I tried to use, like, earthy colors so it wasn’t, like. So it would be something you’d probably wear. You don’t have to wear it, though.”

“You kidding? You just gave me a friendship bracelet,” Dean tells her seriously. “I’m wearing this for life.”

She grins at him. That might be the best damn present of the whole day.

“We were considering making dinner tonight, too,” Cas says slowly. “But we decided we’d give you that choice. There are a few places we could go out to eat, too. Special occasion and all. It would be my treat, of course.”

“You guys were gonna cook?” Dean asks, skeptical.

Cas amends, “Well.  _ Claire  _ was going to cook.”

That makes him laugh. Hell, the whole friggin’ day has made him feel damn near giddy. And he meant what he said earlier, about this being perfect, at least as far as Cas and Claire could make it. There’s only one thing missing, and it’s something so far out of all of their reaches. Still. Dean thinks Sammy would be proud of him for building a life like this and finding people who care enough about his sorry ass to through him a Dollar Store birthday party. God knows he’s damn proud of himself.

“I was thinking we could go to a movie,” Dean suggests, tentative and uncertain. But it feels like a step. “And we could stop somewhere for food. That way no one has to cook. If you guys are up for it.”

“Yes!” Claire says, looking damn near thrilled at the prospect. It makes Dean grin.

“We can do that, Dean,” Cas agrees. “It’s your birthday, after all.”

Dean flushes and looks down at his hands. He tries for nonchalance when he says, “It’s just another day, Cas, really.”

“Maybe it was,” Cas allows. Dean can feel the reassuring weight of Cas’s gaze on him again, but he doesn’t look up to catch his eye. “But it isn’t any more.”

It’s a lot. In a good way, Dean thinks, but it is a lot. He turns even more red and forces himself to roll his eyes like that will hide a damn thing, and he tells Cas, “You’re a damn sap, you know that?”

“You seem to enjoy having me around anyway,” Cas points out, and. Well. What’s Dean gonna do with that, disagree?

Dean assigns himself to look up movies and times at the theater, because it’s his damn birthday so he gets to pick what they see even if it’s some funny looking kid movie. Cas tries to start cleaning up the wrapping paper while Dean pulls up the website, but Claire swoops in and stops him before he can, and her voice is breezy when she says, “I got it, Dad.”

Cas pauses and looks at her when she won’t see. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

When she leaves the table to throw the garbage away, Dean leans forward and murmurs, “Dad, huh?”

“It’s a new development,” Cas whispers back. “I’m trying to remain calm about it. I don’t want to freak her out with my enthusiasm.”

Dean grins. “But you are glad, right?”

“It’s one of the greatest miracles I’ve ever experienced,” Cas tells him, and he smiles back.

They find a movie they all agree on that starts just a little after seven, and it’s still a bit early but Dean rationalizes dinner now if it gives them time to settle into the theater, and both Cas and Claire are hard-pressed to disagree when eating out is on the table.

Dean’s phone rings, when Claire has left to go change and Cas has excused himself upstairs to find a thicker coat. Dean digs his cell phone out of his jean pockets and stares, a bit uncomprehendingly, at the screen.

“Lisa?” he answers. He’s damn near certain she’s about to tell him that something is wrong.

Panic is steadily rising in his chest, faster than he can even work around, until he hears Lisa take an easy breath and say, “If I remember right, today is your birthday. Right?”

All the worry in him rushes out in a sharp exhale. Scrubbing tiredly at his jaw, Dean says, “You remember my birthday?”

Lisa’s laughter is soft in his ear. She sounds okay. More than that, she doesn’t sound angry. Dean had expected yelling, if he ever heard from her again. Some kind of consequence to him up and leaving in the middle of the night. But she just sounds… good. Nice, even. “Seems like it,” she says. “Happy Birthday, Dean.”

“Thanks, Lise,” he says, and he means it. “I’m. Surprised to hear from you.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I wasn’t… I didn’t know if I’d actually go through with it, but. Here we are.”

Dean lets go of the breath he’d been holding. “Here we are,” he agrees. “Well. Shit. It’s really nice to hear from you. I wanted… I thought about trying to get a hold of you but, you know. Wasn’t sure… Anyway. I mean, how are you? How’s Ben?”

“Ben’s great,” Lisa tells him. “He started sixth grade, he’s enjoying it. I’m still trying to wrap my head around him being in middle school now. But he’s good. And I’m… good. Things are going okay for us out here.”

“Good,” Dean repeats. “I mean, I’m glad, I guess. I was worried when I left…”

Wryly, Lisa says, “Ben and I survived without you for several years before you crash-landed back in our lives, Dean, we’re just fine with handling things on our own even with you gone again.”

Dean winches. “I know, I just. I mean. I know that.”

“You could have said goodbye,” Lisa says finally. “I mean. I get why you left. And I was mad at you, at first, because it was just like you to do that again and it wasn’t fair to me and Ben for it to just… end again like that. But. Don’t take this the wrong way, Dean, but I’m glad, now. That you did leave.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Dean closes his eyes and takes another deep breath, only reopening them when he hears the stairs creak. Cas peers at him curiously.

“Theresa?” he mouths. “CJ?”

Dean shakes his head. Claire’s bedroom door opens, and she starts to come down the stairs, too, stopping at the foot of it and pausing when she sees Dean on the phone. They’re both looking at him. Dean’s surprised to find that he doesn’t mind. After a beat too long, Dean finally says to Lisa, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad, too.”

Lisa huffs around a relieved laugh. “So you’re good, too, then? You’re happy?”

“I mean,” Dean says. “Still trying to remind myself how to be, but. The good days outnumber the bad. And I’ve settled in, where I’m at. Got a bunch of people looking out for me in ways I’ve never had before, so. We make do.”

“That, you certainly do, Dean Winchester,” Lisa agrees softly. “Hey, listen, I gotta go, but. I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And make sure you were still breathing, I guess. Kinda worries a girl when the guy that shows up on her doorstep after averting the Apocalypse just disappears in the middle of the night, you know?”

Dean chuckles at that. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, Lisa.”

“Good,” Lisa says. “You should be.”

“For what it’s worth, it was nice to hear from you,” Dean tells her. “I’m not angling for anything here, swear to God. Just. Nice to hear a familiar voice, you know? Good to know I didn’t completely screw everything up.”

She sighs at that, but there’s a laugh at the tail end of it that makes Dean feel lighter. “That’s still up for debate. I may be mad at you again, tomorrow.”

“I’d say that’s fair,” Dean says.

“It was nice to hear from you, too, Dean,” Lisa murmurs. She’s a more forgiving woman than Dean could have ever deserved.

“Alright, well, I’ll let you go. I got my own hot date to get to,” Dean says, and he shoots Claire a goofy wink that makes her roll her eyes. He grins back at her. “Thanks for calling.”

“Have a nice birthday,” Lisa tells him, and she hangs up without another word.

Dean pockets his phone and looks between Cas and Claire. “You guys ready to go?”

“Yes,” Cas says, and he hands Dean a coat that Dean probably would have forgotten to grab himself. He looks pensive as Dean shrugs it on. Finally, he says, “That was Lisa?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers. He looks down as he zips his coat up. “She just wanted to check in. She wished me a happy birthday. Sounds like she and Ben are doing pretty good for themselves.”

Cas nods to himself. He chews on his bottom lip. When Dean points to the car keys hanging by the front door, Cas passes them to him easily. “You must have been very happy to hear from her, then.”

“I mean, yeah,” Dean says. “But I’m happier about this movie we’re gonna be late to if we don’t hurry up and go eat before it starts. You ready? Move it or lose it.”

Claire leads the way outside, with Cas behind her, and Dean closes the front door once they’re all out and double checks the locks out of habit more than anything else. Dean pauses once he turns away from the door and catches sight of Cas and Claire, waiting patiently by the Impala. Cas’s nose is already red from the cold. Claire bounces up and down on her heels and hums loudly. They’re both still wearing those silly, cheap party hats, though Claire’s got hers on now over the beanie she’s tucked over her hair and ears. It’s by far the most anyone’s ever gone out to celebrate Dean’s birthday, and it feels fucking fantastic.

  
And it’s funny, now, as he walks towards them and thinks about Lisa, that he could have ever believed his only chance at a normal life was in Indiana with her. He doesn’t feel any of that, now. He can’t believe there was ever a time he was sure that was what he wanted. And he doesn’t think he’d be able to give  _ this  _ up, what he has now, for what he thought he wanted then. Cas and Claire are more than worth it. He still doesn’t know what to make of that most days, and it terrifies the hell out of him, but. Even still. Dean wonders if this is what it feels like when someone’s finally found the place they’re meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those wanting to know what they're getting into before reading this chapter:  
> claire gets in a fight with a student at school who spoke negatively about dean and cas and the implication that they are claire's dads. it is referenced that his statements were homophobic, though they are not written out in words, and claire comes to their defense. cas and claire have a relatively healthy conversation about the incident and about the fight at school that leads to her suspension. no one is hurt by the comments, except for the kid that claire punches,


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter celebrated dean's birthday but this chapter is a special treat so it gets posted today bc he and we deserve it. hbd dean keep thotting it up in heaven king miss you every day

They finish the house together on an otherwise unnoteworthy Saturday in March.

They paint the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room all in one go, with every window on the floor level thrown open even though it’s not quite warm enough. Dean’s birthday mixtape plays through the speakers of the tiny radio. He feels pretty damn good. Proud of this little house and the way he’d changed it from something neglected to something full of homey comfort. He’s still got to order some new appliances, and they’ll probably spend years trying to get the kitchen fully stocked with all the shit they want. And, hell, Dean hasn’t even begun to think about decor. But the bones of the house are  _ done.  _ The rest of it gets to be built over time.

Claire had picked the color for the kitchen and dining room, a pale blue color called  _ Rhine River  _ or some shit that had surprised Dean when she’d settled on it. But it looks awesome, especially as it starts to cover the walls and as the sun starts shining more steadily through the window. Cas has a smear of the color on his cheek. Dean wonders if he even knows it’s there.

It’s friggin’ awesome. Dean’s giddy with it, as they cover the ugly ass eggshell color and sing along to the mixtape, loud and unabashed. They sound horrible. Off-tune and out of sync. There are times that they drown out the actual sound of the song, and if Dean’s being completely honest, it feels great.

It’s late afternoon by the time they finish. The sun is starting to hang lower in the west, and they pull leftovers out of the fridge and sit on the front porch to eat. It’s a little bit warmer now, even with the small breeze, and Dean tips his head back to enjoy it.

There’s a stray cat that keeps showing up at their doorstep, a lanky black cat with large yellow eyes that purrs loudly when Cas scratches under its’ neck. Dean watches, ignoring the twitch in his nose, as Cas talks to it and smooths its’ fur back.

“One of these days, I’m gonna catch you feeding that thing, then you’re not gonna be able to pretend you aren’t doing it,” Dean tells him.

Cas just grins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Dean grumbles.

“One of these days, you’re gonna cave and let him bring a cat into the house,” Claire points out, and she’s got a smug grin on her face like she can see into the future or some shit and knows something Dean doesn’t know.

Dean rolls his eyes and lets it go.

Cas scratches behind the cat’s ear. He’s got a soft voice talking to it, low and pleased. He’s clearly delighted by the cat’s purring, and slips it a bite of chicken when he thinks Dean isn’t looking. Dean lets that go, too.

“So,” Dean says, ten or so minutes later, after Claire had grown bored and gone up to her room and after the cat had slinked off again. Dean traces his finger along the label of his Coke bottle. He can feel it when Cas slowly raises his gaze. “House is done.”

Cas hums.

“Ain’t that crazy?” Dean muses. “Been workin’ on this thing for. What, seven months? Eight? Now it’s all done.”

“Almost,” Cas murmurs.

Dean frowns, and he turns in his chair so he can catch Cas’s eye. “What do you mean, almost? Painting was the last thing we had to do. Unless you got some secret project you’ve been keeping from me.”

Grinning, Cas says, “It’s not a very good secret if I tell you now, is it?”

“Alright, smartass,” Dean tells him, rolling his eyes. “Well, whatever it is, I want this damn house to be done, so you better get it done and over here quick.”

“Well, if you’re that impatient,” Cas says easily, and he stands to take their empty plates back inside. The front door sways behind him, but he doesn’t close it. Dean watches him quietly as he goes.

He stays outside, for just a little while longer. Drains the last dredges of his Coke then kills some more time picking at the label and staring absently out at the street. There was a time in his life where he barely felt like he had a second to catch his breath. These days, there’s nothing but time on his side. Never anywhere for him to rush off to. No one watching him with suspicious eyes as he swipes stolen credit cards. There’s just… room. For him, for Cas, for Claire. For them to grow and for them to fall and for them to get back up in a way that none of them have ever really had room for before.

Hell, some days he’s bored as hell. There are still times he wakes up in a cold sweat with his fingers itching for a knife and the smell of sulfur in his nose. He doubts he’ll ever stop leaving holy water under his bed, just in case. But. He’s got this house. He’s got people inside that ain’t going anywhere anytime soon. He’s got a regular order at a couple of restaurants, and a growing pile of recipes given to him by people in this town that Cas keeps swearing he’s gonna assemble into a cookbook, and he’s never lived somewhere that gave a damn about him so it feels pretty friggin’ great, when he thinks about it.

Up the street, there’s a burst of laughter and shrieks as a couple of the younger neighbor kids tumble by on rollerblades and skateboards. They wave to him as they pass, and a few of them yell out, “Hi, Mr. Dean!” as they go. That feels pretty friggin’ great, too.

The breeze picks up. Dean watches the rustling leaves of the tree across the street. He’s struck, then, by the fleeting memory of a six-year-old Sam, with more courage than muscle mass, scaling up the biggest one he could find after Dean dared him to. Dean had been too nervous, but Sam hadn’t hesitated. Damn kid had always been braver than he’d had any right to be.

Dean sighs when the clouds let up a bit, and he tips his face towards the sun. Lets his eyes close for just a second. And his mind wanders. He gets caught up in making a mental list of what he wants to get, now, that the hardest part of the house is done. Shit he’ll need to make it look like a real, respectable place. An actual kitchen table, to start, instead of that foldable one with the shitty chairs they use now. Stools for the island that they put in the kitchen. A couch that ain’t older than he is, and a tv from this decade. And other shit, too, like a rug for the living room and a tile backsplash for the kitchen and pictures to hang on the bare wall in the dining area. The other day, the waitress at their diner, Mythri, had introduced Dean to some site called Pinterest. It had given him a lot of ideas for some DIY shit they could do around the house.

He’s still thinking about it when he hears Cas comes back out, and when Dean opens his eyes again he sees Cas donned in one of his newer jackets and a ballcap that he vaguely recognizes as an old one of his. He’s got Dean’s coat draped over his arm, too. When Dean looks up at him, he says, “Would you like to go pick it up now?”

“Pick what up?” Dean asks.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “A secret project I’ve been working on.”

“You were serious about that?” Dean asks. Cas just holds his jacket out to him instead of responding. “Shit, okay, yeah. Let’s go.”

They take the truck. Dean moves like he’s going to get into the driver’s seat, but he pauses when Cas shoots him an unimpressed look. “You don’t know where we’re going,” Cas points out, just a little bit smug about it, and he pulls the truck keys out of his pocket. Dean goes to the passenger side with a long-suffering sigh.

There’s a CD playing through the stereo, once Cas starts the ignition and the truck roars to life. Something Dean doesn’t recognize. Cas must have bought it for himself. Cas has been driving the truck so often that Dean’s got half a mind to just christen it as his anyway. He looks at home, in the driver’s seat. Easing the truck out of the driveway and onto the road like it’s something he’s done all his life, and not a skill he’s only picked up in the last year or so.

Dean rolls the truck windows down. Cas hums along to the music. They sit in silence for a few minutes, before Dean turns back to Cas and says, “Claire didn’t want to come?”

“She’s got quite a bit of homework,” Cas answers easily. “Better she stay home and get it done before her test on Wednesday.”

“Right,” Dean remembers. He taps his fingers against the dashboard. “It’s that… math test, isn’t it?”

Cas smiles at him. Some soft, unbidden thing that makes Dean’s stomach leap like they’ve just driven over a pothole. Cas turns his gaze back to the road but says, “Yes. The probability unit. Claire says it’s the bane of her existence.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me,” Dean mutters, laughing. “Look who’s raising her. When have we ever relied on the odds?”

The rest of the drive is quiet. Easy. Dean’s surprised when Cas takes them to the old rec center right at the edge of town. Dean has never gone in himself, but he’s dropped Claire off here a few times so she can play basketball games with her friends.

“You build us a basketball court or something?” Dean asks, as Cas passes by all the open parking spots and eases the truck up to the curb next to a side door.

“Of course,” Cas deadpans. “That’s why we brought the truck. Because a basketball court will fit in the back, easy.”

“Not with that attitude,” Dean tells him, and he winks when Cas levels him with a scowl.

He follows Cas in through the side door, only a little surprised when Cas pulls out a set of keys that opens it. Whatever hobby Cas picked up here, he’s clearly been at it long enough that the employees trust him to come and go as he pleases. This, Dean realizes, must be what Cas does on the days he doesn’t go into the shop with Dean.

The door leads them right into a workshop. Cas leads him past the two pottery wheels near the front, past a few table saws, until they reach a room that’s mostly closed off from the rest of the space. Cas flips a switch, once they’re both inside.

Light reflects through colored panels, igniting the whole room in soft, muted rainbows. Finished stained glass windows are propped up against the far wall, and some smaller glass panels hang from the ceiling. There’s a lingering smell of linseed oil in the air, but it’s bright despite it all. Cas moves to a table towards the back, but Dean stays, frozen, near the entrance, taking it all in.

His only notable experience with stained glass windows is the unfortunate time he spent in churches during hunts. They’d blown his mind, when he was a kid. The more-religious ones had freaked him out, the older he got, but the ones that were just filled with colors and shapes never stopped catching his eye. It’s different, here. With sunlight streaming in from the big, plain windows and lighting up every unique panel.

It makes sense, Dean thinks, that Cas would find this place. That he’d blend so seamlessly into it.

“Stained glass?” Dean says after a bit, when he’s finally found his voice. His gaze catches on a hanging fixture near the doorway. Large, colorful feathers. Unbroken. He reaches out to touch them before he catches himself. “That’s what you’ve been doing?”

“You told me to find a hobby,” Cas reminds him.

“I didn’t think it would be this,” Dean murmurs. Cas turns to look at him. “So. You make any of these?”

Cas raises an eyebrow and looks around. “A few,” he admits. He frowns at a rather uneven-looking panel that’s sitting up on a table. “This one was my first attempt. I wanted to get rid of it, once it was done. It didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to. But Maggie told me to keep it.”

“Maggie?” Dean repeats. He pulls himself away from the doorway and meets Cas, finally, at the back table. Cas’s first attempt at stained-glass is a misshapen circle. The pieces are stitched together clumsily, but. It’s still something Cas made. Dean thinks it’s pretty cool. “Like, our neighbor, Maggie?”

“She runs the art department here,” Cas says. “She told me this studio goes pretty unused, but she introduced me to someone who came in a few times a month. Mildred. She started coming in more frequently when I expressed my desire to learn.”

Dean whistles, low and appreciative. He follows, when Cas points out another project of his. This one is much neater. It hangs from the ceiling and casts a blue glow on Cas’s cheekbone. “This is pretty damn cool, Cas,” Dean tells him. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised you found yourself something like this to do.”

Wryly, Cas says, “I’m choosing to believe you meant that as a compliment.”

“What else would I mean it as?”

Cas hums noncommittally. “Regardless. I’ve been working on something for the past few months. I was thinking that perhaps you could put it in the kitchen.”

Dean expects something small. He expects something like one of the hanging fixtures. He doesn’t expect Cas to lift a heavy canvas off of a large piece propped up on the ground. And he really doesn’t expect a full-sized window, the exact same size as the gothic-arched pane they have in their own kitchen.

It’s a rich, bright collection of yellow and brown and clear hexagons pieced together like honeycomb. Cas has even managed to design a few small bees, carefully placed in the center of their hexagons.

“Cas,” Dean says finally. He reaches forward and runs the tip of his index finger along the smooth point of the window pane. “You seriously made this?”

“Last I checked,” Cas murmurs. He shifts his weight anxiously from foot to foot. An endearingly human motion that Dean has yet to get used to. “I had to start over, twice. The bees were not too kind to me. But Mildred, she helped with those, at last. I did the rest.”

Dean lets out a low, impressed whistle. He wishes he had better words for it. God knows Cas deserves it, for something like this. “And it’s—”

“For the kitchen, yes,” Cas finishes. He wrings his hands together. “It should fit perfectly into the space above the kitchen sink. We took great care to make sure of it. Of course, that’s… it’s your house. So only if you want. We certainly don’t have to.”

“You’re a dumbass, Cas,” Dean blurts out. He straightens up suddenly. He reaches up to grab Cas’s shoulder, like he’s got to make sure Cas can see him as he says this. “How many times do I have to tell you, huh? It’s just as much your house as it’s mine. As it’s Claire’s. And this… I mean. Shit, Cas. This is. That’s fucking amazing. I can’t believe you want it in the house, and not…”

With a raised eyebrow, Cas asks, “Not where?”

Embarrassed and quiet, Dean murmurs, “Not somewhere better. Where people can actually see it.”

For some reason, Cas seems surprised by this. There are a lot of things that Dean doesn’t understand about Cas, still. Hell, most things, if he’s being honest. But what surprises Cas and what doesn’t seems to depend entirely on a pattern that Dean’s certain he’ll never figure out. Slowly, Cas says, “The only people that I care about seeing it will see it every day.”

There’s nothing Dean can say in response that’ll even come close to getting across how he feels, so he just turns instead and tucks Cas into him, wrapping his arms tightly around his shoulders and sighing in relief when Cas holds him back, too.

* * *

“Are you  _ sure  _ you don’t need me to come?” Dean presses, trailing after Cas and Claire as they shrug their coats on and head for the garage. “You might need me there. What if you need backup?”

Cas rolls his eyes at Dean over Claire’s head. She’d gotten her arm caught in her sleeve, and Cas had moved easily to help her. She mutters a  _ thanks, dad,  _ under her breath and pulls her long hair out from beneath her hood. To Dean, Cas says, “We aren’t going to need backup for this.”

Dean frowns. “You don’t know that,” he argues. “Plenty of things could go wrong. And, I mean. I’ve done this before. Been around the block a few times, so. I know what to expect. Probably.”

“The last time you did this was fifteen years ago,” Cas points out. “And you were the student.”

“So?” Dean mutters.

Cas sighs. “And you  _ know  _ I’ve done these before. Recently. Even without this, I used to lead entire armies in heaven, Dean. I once rebelled against an entire faction and assisted you in saving the world, you may recall.”

“I’m not saying you  _ didn’t  _ do that—”

“Dean,” Cas says, and he reaches forward and touches Dean’s wrist with gentle fingers. “It’s just Parent-Teacher Conferences. For our high-schooler. I promise we’ll be alright handling this on our own.”

Dean deflates. “Yeah, okay,” he allows. “It’s just. I could give that biology teacher a piece of my mind for the shit he said to Claire last week.”

“That’s exactly why you aren’t going,” Cas tells him. He lets go of Dean’s wrist and reaches up to grab his shoulder. “We don’t need anymore teachers at Claire’s high school disliking you. She has to attend for three more years after this.”

Scowling, Claire mutters, “Don’t remind me.”

“Greatest years of your life, kid,” Dean tells her sarcastically.

“Yeah,” she says, eyes lighting up the way they do when Dean gives her a clear shot to tease him back. “That’s why you dropped out, right?”

Dean whistles lowly, and shakes his head in a dramatic way that makes Claire snort around a giggle. “Damn. That was below the belt.”

“We’ll be gone less than an hour,” Cas says loudly, and he puts his hands on Claire’s shoulders to steer her back towards the garage. He looks back at Dean once she starts to go. “We’ll be back for dinner, if you’ve got something in mind you want to get started on.”

“Yes, honey,” Dean sighs, and he means it as a joke even though the words come out a little bit sticky in his throat. Claire mimes a gag behind Cas’s back and hurries down the stairs when Dean narrows his eyes at her, but Cas stands there for another minute longer, smiling at him.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says sincerely.

Dean groans, pushing himself off of where he’d been leaning against the island, and he waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Oh my god, get out of here. You’re welcome. Jesus Christ.”

He waits until he hears the rumble of the truck starting up and the carrying sound of the music that Claire blares the second Cas lets her touch the volume of the stereo, and he listens until the music gets quieter and the garage door closes and until he can’t hear the truck anymore. Then, when he finally forces himself to do something, he sighs and goes to pull ground beef out of the freezer.

The thing is, he hates being home alone in a way he never expected. Especially when he’d first bought the house and expected to be the only one here. But. He and Sam grew up living in each other's back pockets. Crowding together in the backseat of the Impala under their dad’s jacket and sharing motel beds until Sam hit his ninth grade growth spurt and started throwing bony elbows a lot more during the night. Even when it wasn’t him and Sam, it was him and Dad, sharing a room and eating at cramped motel tables illuminated by a staticky tv light.

Point is, Dean never lived on his own. Never had an excuse or a reason to. And now, he’s so damn used to noise in this house that it’s unsettling when there’s nothing. When he can’t hear whatever show Cas is binge-watching now echoing down the hall because he never shuts his bedroom door. When Claire’s music isn’t blasting whether she’s doing homework or taking a shower, or without the unruly giggles of her and her friends before they tumble down the stairs and leave for whatever teenage girls do in town. Without the laundry going, or without Cas humming out of tune as he sits without Dean, or without the footfall of his family as they settle around the house.

Dean listens, for a moment, for anything out of the ordinary. A creaking footstep or a cold whisper or anything, like there might be something here now that’s been waiting to get him alone before attacking. But there’s nothing. Just him, and a pound of frozen ground beef staring at him like its wondering what his next move will be.

An hour, Cas had said. Just a few minute-long conversations with Claire’s teachers to find out how she’s doing in class and to air out any concerns. Not that there have been any, since the January Incident that they don’t speak about often. Just an hour of that, then they’ll be back, and Dean can stop feeling like his blood is trying to crawl out of his skin.

He can make burgers in an hour, so he throws the bag into the microwave and hits defrost. It won’t take long, but it gives Dean another moment to slow down. Another second to remind himself to breathe. He looks at the kitchen window. The newly installed stain-glass panel that has illuminated the kitchen in warm honey-colors every morning ever since they put it in. It had fit perfectly, like Cas had hoped. Even Claire had been impressed by it.

Dean snaps a picture of it to text to Pete. He’d brought it up at work, the day after they’d gotten in it, and Pete had been hounding him for pictures ever since. Dean’s phone starts to ring not long after the picture sends, and he accepts Pete’s call.

“Heya, Pete,” he says. He pins the phone between his shoulderblade and his cheek so his hands are free, giving him the freedom to start pulling the shit he’ll need for the patties out of cupboards.

“Helluva window that boy threw together,” Pete says right away. No point in beating around the bush when it comes to Pete, Dean’s noticed. “Kid’s got some damn talent, if that’s the kind of shit he can do with his hands. He thinking about making any money off it? People’d probably buy, ‘specially around here.”

Dean huffs around a laugh. “Ah, I dunno, Pete,” he says honestly. “Think Cas is just doing it for fun right now, you know? God knows he could use a damn hobby or two. Putting money behind it might just stress him out.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Pete sighs. “Well, it looks great. Ther says so, too. Any special reason he chose bees?”

“Think he just likes them,” Dean answers with a shrug. In all honesty, he hadn’t even thought to question it. It was just… Cas. And it had fit with him so well. “Looks good, though. Kind of insane what it does to my kitchen when the sun comes up.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Pete muses. “But it ain’t a bad thing.”

“Nah, it’s pretty friggin’ awesome.”

Pete’s quiet on the other end of the line, for just long enough that Dean starts to shift uncomfortably. Finally, he says, “Y’all are doin’ alright out there, right? Cas still holding up okay? That kid of yours still adjusting?”

“Yeah, Pete,” Dean answers, a little bit surprised by it. “Everyone’s good. Why?”

“Good,” Pete murmurs. “That’s good.”

The microwave beeps. Dean opens and closes the door so it won’t keep going off. Slowly, he asks, “Something going on, Pete?”

Pete lets out a small huff of air that could almost be a laugh, if either of them believed it to be. “Sorry, kid,” he says. “I’m just gettin’ old. You start worrying about shit when you can’t check on it yourself, you know? And Theresa and I, we, uh. We never had kids of our own. Just wasn’t in the cards for us. But. Makes the whole town our family, that. And you… that sweet kid and her father. You’re all more family than most.”

“Hell, Pete,” Dean mutters, and he makes himself laugh so he doesn’t do something stupid like cry. “You and Ther are family, too. You gotta know that.”

Pete clears his throat. “Yeah, well. We damn well better be. Just from the amount of food we’ve fed your sorry asses alone. And I ain’t just talking about the kid. You and that man of yours can shovel in food like it’s gonna disappear if you don’t eat it fast enough.”

“Blame it on how we grew up,” Dean tells him. He shifts his weight from side to side, as Pete’s words sink in.  _ That man of yours.  _ It’s not the first time someone’s drawn that conclusion. Hell, it happened before they even lived here. But. “Pete, you know Cas ain’t… Cas and I. He’s just a friend.”

“Mmhm,” Pete hums. “Y’know, I had just a friend once.”

Dean huffs and rolls his eyes. “Then, what, you married her?”

“Nah,” Pete tells him. “Then he broke my heart.”

“Oh,” Dean says dumbly, and then it hits him. He leans back against the counter in surprise. “Oh.  _ Oh.  _ So, you…”

Pete laughs, and it comes out tight but his voice is easy as he says, “It was the 70s, y’know? And Roger and I… Wasn’t like we were public with it, or anything. Kinda hard to be in a small town like Bennett. But people let us be. Either just assumed we were only close friends or pretended they didn’t see.”

It’s a heavy weight that Dean doesn’t know how to hold. It scares him that it’s so damn familiar. “So. Uh. What happened between you two, then?”

“We were young and stupid, and Roger was scared,” Pete says. “And he kept sayin’ it, too. We’re just friends. Only friends. And I… I mean, I understood why, but. I didn’t like it. I wanted things to be a certain way, and Roger needed things to stay the same. He left and I didn’t stop him.”

And.  _ Christ. _ Dean thinks about how he grew up, twenty years later than Pete and his guy but still just as terrified. And he thinks about how he’d feel if Cas left, like Roger did all those years ago. It suffocates him.

“I found Theresa, and I was damn lucky I did,” Pete continues, like he knows he’s not gonna get much out of Dean right now. “She’s my soulmate in every way we could be. But I’ve seen the way you look at that boy, Dean, and I used to look at her the same damn way way back when. Before we got together and I used to think that she’d never want a guy like me.”

“Pete, I don’t,” Dean protests, but it sounds weak even to him.

“You don’t even know you’re in love with that boy, do you?”

Everything comes crashing down on him all at once. The weight of everything. The memory of a shoddy motel in Pontiac and the way his heart pounded when he asked Cas to bring Claire and move in with him. The way his heart had stuttered in his chest when Cas had kissed his cheek on New Year’s Eve. Unknowable fear when Cas died in front of him, twice, and the unexplainable relief when Cas came back. Begging Cas to rebel. Laughing with him on a hunt. A version of them, five years into an alternate future, that danced around one another in a more obvious way. All of it hits Dean with a force like a suckerpunch.

Dean’s been loving Cas for years. Decades, maybe. Ever since he looked up as the angels were laying siege to hell and caught that first glimpse of an incandescent light. Cas saved him and Cas brought him back and when Cas stitched the pieces of Dean’s soul together, he might has well have stitched himself there, too.

Unbidden, Dean thinks about a snow-covered mountain from months ago, and the bright look of epiphany that Cas wore when he and Dean shared that first cold morning together. Cas must have realized it then. Dean can’t believe it took him this long to realize it on his own.

“Pete,” Dean says. He’s not entirely sure why.

But Pete gets it. And thank god for that. He lets out a low rumble of a laugh, and his voice is even and knowing when he asks, “You got something you need to do, boy?”

“Yeah,” Dean says faintly. And he hangs up the phone.

An hour. Cas had given him an hour. Dean thinks, it just might be enough time to set something up. He doesn’t know what he can do that they don’t do damn near every night, but he’ll find it. He can dress a little bit nicer. Clean up the small messes Cas had offhandedly said he’d take care of when he got home. And he can make dinner. Even if it’s something he makes more often than he cares to admit.

Dean swaps out his old t-shirt and faded flannel for a henley he finds in the back of his closet. Puts on the nicest jeans he can find. It’s relative, considering they only qualify as his nicest because the hole in this pair is the smallest and most easily hidden one. And Dean picks up the kitchen, as he cleans. He sets out all the makings for burgers and he finds potatoes in the pantry that he peels up and cuts into homemade fries. He sets the table, then panics when it feels like too much, and puts it all away again.

He gets the idea to eat out on the porch tonight a bit later than he probably should have, but the food’s all done so he covers it and goes outside to sweep off the patio. He’s in the middle of hauling three folding chairs out there when he hears the old rumble of the truck and looks up to watch Cas pulling onto the road.

Cas rolls the window down as he pulls into the driveway. “What’s going on?” he asks.

Dean just shrugs. “Thought we could eat out here, if that’s cool with you guys.”

God, Dean’s heart is hammering in his chest now that Cas is home. He watches with a lump in his throat as Cas kills the truck engine in the driveway and clambers out of the car. It dawns on him just how much Cas has changed, since all of this. Since they first met, and since becoming a human. He hasn’t worn that old suit for as long as Dean’s seen him here. Even still, his tie is flipped backwards. It lessens the knot in Dean’s stomach, and he thinks about how some things never change.

They do eat outside. Claire loads up her plate with fries and only scowls for a second when Cas asks her to include a vegetable on her burger. Cas assembles two burgers for himself, and Dean carries two beers and a soda outside for them to drink. They sit on the folding chairs on the patio with their plates teetering in their laps.

“My art teacher loves Cas,” Claire tells Dean, when he asks how the conferences went. “He told her about that window and I thought we were gonna be there all night. Mr. Brenner didn’t like him, though.”

Dean grunts. “That’s your science teacher, right?”

“Yeah.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Mr. Brenner is a science teacher that doesn’t believe in global warming. Whether or not he likes me doesn’t bother me at all. Clearly, his opinions don’t bear much merit.”

“Atta boy,” Dean says, and he claps a hand on Cas’s shoulder. Cas beams at him, bright and handsome as ever. “Should have let me come after all, huh? I could’ve torn into him a bit more. Given him something to really hate us for.”

“I still have to finish out this semester with him, Dean,” Claire whines.

“Alright, alright,” Dean says. “I’ll keep my ass home during conferences, then.”

They watch the sun start to set. Claire goes inside and takes their plates when she’s done. She comes back out with a blanket that she drops onto Cas’s shoulders and wishes them both a goodnight before going in once again. Cas pulls the blanket tight over his shoulders and smiles long after she’s gone.

“She’s a good kid,” Cas murmurs, when he catches Dean staring at him.

“Takes after you,” Dean tells him. And ain’t it something when Cas grins at him, too.

“This has been really nice, Dean,” Cas tells him. He’s illuminated, just a bit, by the light of the streetlamp on their driveway. And he looks good. Happy, which Dean is pleased by, but. Good, too. Handsome. “Thank you for doing all this.”

“It was nothing,” Dean mutters, a bit embarrassed now, because it really wasn’t. Hell, it was almost too easy to get this whole thing set up. Barely anything changed, and maybe that’s what’s craziest about the whole thing. That they’ve been doing this already. That they’ve been on this road probably longer than either of them had realized.

Cas lets out a slow breath. “Still,” he says. “This was very kind of you. Although, you didn’t need to do this to thank me for the window.”

Dean laughs and shakes his head. He’s halfway through another sip of his beer when it dawns on him, perhaps a moment too late, that Cas didn’t sound like he was joking. Dean catches his eye again. “Dude. That’s not why I did this.”

“Oh,” Cas says, surprised. He frowns and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. It’s something he’s picked up only recently, something strangely endearing that makes Dean’s stomach swoop into his ribcage. “I just assumed…”

“Cas,” Dean says softly. He wants this so bad he can feel it in his fingertips. Cas’s eyes don’t leave his face. “C’mon. I got dressed up for this.”

“Oh,” Cas murmurs. His eyes are searching for something in Dean’s expression, so Dean waits. Lets him find it. Until finally, beautifully, something slides into place in Cas’s expression. Like he had all the puzzle pieces but has only just figured out where the last one goes. There’s a hopeful quirk in the corner of his mouth that catches Dean’s gaze. In a softer voice, he says again, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs. He can’t quite get himself to look away from Cas’s mouth.

With a light air of amusement, Cas tells him, “I didn’t realize this constituted as dressing up in your book.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Dean breathes, and he leans in.

There’s not much space between them. It doesn’t take much. When Cas lets out a small, surprised exhale, the breath of it hits Dean’s cheek. Cas’s voice is quiet and easy as he murmurs, “You’ve known that since the day you met me.”

“Tell me I’m not the only one who wants this.”

“How could you ever believe it was just you?” Cas says. “When everything I’ve done since saving you from Hell has been done in your name?”

“Christ, Cas,” Dean laughs, breathless under all of it. He reaches up and presses the palm of his hand to Cas’s cheek, steadying them both. It’s electrifying. Intoxicating, being close to him like this. More so than the two and half beers they’ve split between them. “You nearly kissed me once on this porch before, remember? You want another chance to do it right?”

Cas says, “What a line,” like it’s exactly what he expected Dean to say, and he closes the rest of the space between them and presses his mouth against Dean’s before either of them can say another word.

It’s awkward. It’s perfect. The angle isn’t quite right, until Dean flexes his hand against Cas’s cheek and Cas tilts his nose to the side and then—yeah,  _ there _ —it’s everything. Dean can’t believe how long they’ve gone without this. How long he spent complete unaware that the part of him that felt like it’d been missing had been cupped in Cas’s hands all along. Cas parts his mouth, just a tiny bit, and he sighs when Dean shifts closer and fixes the angle again. Dean slides his hand from Cas’s cheek to down his neck to along his collarbone until finally, finally, he twines his fingers in the unruly hair at the back of Cas’s head.

Cas sighs against Dean’s lips, low and pleased. As far as first kisses go, it might be damn near the best one Dean can remember. Neither of them say anything as they pull away, but Cas reaches up until he’s got a fistful of Dean’s shirt and can keep him close, resting their foreheads together.

“You’re gonna wrinkle my nicest shirt,” Dean tells him.

“I think you’ll manage,” Cas says, and his huff of laughter brushes against Dean’s mouth. Cas is quiet, for a beat or two, until he pulls far enough away that he can catch Dean’s gaze again. Gently, he says, “Thank you.”

Dean can’t help the small, unbidden laugh that springs free from his chest. “For what?”

“I, um,” Cas says slowly. His mouth quirks up into another half smile. Dean wants to press his lips to the corner of it. “I have wanted that. For a long time. Longer than I even understood, before I became human. And I had never… I had never done that, before.”

“Cas,” Dean starts, but Cas shakes his head. Dean falls quiet again. Tentatively, Cas lets go of his grip on Dean’s shirt and reaches, reaches, until the swell of his thumb presses gently against the curve of Dean’s bottom lip. “Hey. Listen to me for a second, alright? I’ve never done that before, either.”

Cas huffs at him in disbelief and drops his hand, but Dean’s quicker than that. He catches it and twines their fingers together like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Dean,” Cas starts.

“No, I’m serious, just hang on a second,” Dean continues, and he waits until Cas finally looks at him again. “Yeah, okay, I’m not saying I ain’t ever kissed anyone before. We know that ain’t true. But it’s never been something like this. Never been with someone like you.”

“Dean,” Cas says again, sighing.

Dean reaches up with his free hand and pulls Cas in for another easy kiss. Gentle. They’ve got all the time in the world. Cas moves against him with ease. Like it’s something they’ve done countless times before.

“See what I mean?” Dean murmurs finally, when he pulls away again. They’re still close enough that his lip brushes against Cas’s when he speaks. “It ain’t ever been like that with anyone else for me. Just for you.”

“You’re full of lines,” Cas grumbles.

And hell if that doesn’t make Dean laugh like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever had to do. “You don’t seem to put out by it.”

“Hm,” Cas says, his go-to response when he doesn’t have something smart to say back, and Dean’s so goddamn endeared by it that he can’t help but close the space between them again. And again. And again. It’s a long moment for Cas finally pushes him away with a rumbling laughing, saying, “Alright, alright. I see your point.”

When Dean’s phone rings, he only takes one half hearted glance at the screen and the unfamiliar number before silencing it and reeling Cas in for another kiss. He’s content to spend hours out here, even as the last dredges of the sun set below the mountain line and the cold spring chill settles in. Cas’s mouth is warm and eager and pliant and needy. Cas’s hand is burning hot on Dean’s shoulder, keeping them close.

It’s the type of kissing that’s not quite leading anywhere yet. Dean thinks he’d be fine whether it lead somewhere later or if it stayed like this. He’ll take what he can get. Especially if it means the soft, startled noises Cas makes that he seems unaware of. Especially if it means the tentative, near hesitant press of Cas’s tongue to the seam of Dean’s lips.

Dean drops a hand to Cas’s thigh, just to feel more of him. He’s all thick muscle, and it twitches under Dean’s palm when he squeezes. Dean runs his hand back up along Cas’s side. When Cas sighs, Dean licks into his open mouth with practiced ease. Cas’s hand comes up and grips Dean’s bicep, pulling him closer.

His phone rings again. Dean would ignore it, if the volume wasn’t up. He pulls away from Cas just enough to glance at his screen again, but Cas stays close, finding a spot where Dean’s jawline meets his neck and tugging the skin there between his teeth.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes out. He squeezes his eyes closed. In his hand, his phone continues to go off. It takes him another beat to look at the number again, and his stomach sinks when he realizes it’s the same one that had called him before. “Cas, wait, sorry. Fuck. I think I gotta take this.”

Cas pulls himself away, but he keeps his hands on Dean. One of them drops to Dean’s knee, steadying him. “Is everything alright?”

“Nine-oh-six,” Dean mutters. “Michigan. Anyone we know up in Michigan?”

Frowning, Cas leans back and thinks about it. Dean’s phone drops the call again, but he doesn’t put it away. It’s a long, heavy moment that sits between them before Cas says, “I think I recall Bobby mentioning the possibility of a case out there not long ago. If I remember right, he was going to send someone up there.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean says, and his phone starts to ring for the third time. He accepts the call. “Hello?”

“Hi, um,” comes the voice finally. Some young and terrified-sounding kid that immediately has Dean on alert. “Is this, uh. Is this Dean Winchester?”

“Who is this?” Dean asks. “How’d you get this number?”

The kid lets out a sharp breath. He talks so fast that Dean can barely catch wind of half of it. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he babbles. “I’ve been trying to find a way to get ahold of you for a while, but. I didn’t even know if you actually existed, and when I looked you up, Google claims that you’re dead. But it also says a lot of other stuff about you being wanted for a bunch of stuff that’s, honestly, freaking me out, and. After I saw that stuff I was just gonna let it go, honestly! I mean, I have the ACT coming up, like, next week, and I really should be paying attention to that. But then I couldn’t even  _ sleep,  _ and, like, I’ve never even cheated on a test before but somehow I figured out how to hack these old phone records from a phone that used to be yours, I think, so I called it, but some surly guy who said he was from the FBI picked up and yelled at me when I asked for you, so—”

“Kid, I’m gonna ask you again,” Dean interrupts. His head is starting to hurt, a pressure he can feel behind his eyes. “What’s your name?”

“K-Kevin,” he stammers out. Dean can practically hear him pacing on the other end of the line.

Still perched next to him, Cas leans forward in concern. His hand is still on Dean’s leg, a reassuring weight, even though it rests on Dean’s thigh now. Dean is struck by the sudden want to twine their fingers together. But he can’t. Not yet. Not when he feels like he has to deal with this first. “Okay, Kevin,” Dean says. He keeps his voice as even as possible, even if he’s not sure what to think about this yet. This kid sounds like he’s not much older than Claire. “The FBI guy. Bobby? Did Bobby give you my phone number?”

Kevin hesitates. “No,” he admits. His voice raises in panic again. “He didn’t believe me, when I told him why I needed to talk to you. And he hung up on me, but. I couldn’t stop! So I hacked his phone records, too, I still don’t even know how, but there was a phone call to this number on January 24th, and Google said that was Dean Winchester’s birthday—”

“Jesus, that kind of stuff is online now?” Dean mutters. “Great. Fucking internet.”

“I’m sorry,” Kevin blurts out. “I don’t understand  _ anything  _ that’s happening, but. All the sudden there are these voices in my head, and I had a freaking seizure the other day and I  _ saw  _ things, I saw you, I think, and some of the voices are saying they’re angels, and like. My mom and I aren’t even religious!”

Dean straightens like ice water has been dumped down his back. “Angels?” he repeats.

Cas’s grip tightens on Dean’s leg.

“I guess,” Kevin says in a small voice.

“Kevin, are you—” Dean starts. He can feel a headache forming. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Did they tell you anything about you being a prophet or anything?”

Kevin sucks in a sharp breath over the line. His voice shakes as he says, “Yeah, that’s exactly what they told me.”

“Dammit,” Dean mutters. Cas holds a hand out, like he wants Dean to pass the phone over, but Dean just shakes his head. Cas has been doing a lot better since they clipped his wings, and Heaven isn’t quite the sore spot it used to be, but. Dean doesn’t want Cas to hear this just in case it ends up being too much. “Okay. Fuck. I mean. Fuck. How old are you anyway, kid?”

“Fifteen,” Kevin tells him, and Dean feels like he might be sick.

He gives in, finally, and wraps his hand around Cas’s. If for nothing else but to feel like he’s got something to hold onto while they do this. “Okay. Right. So what are the angels saying? Why do they need me?”

There’s a staticky pause over the line as Kevin tries to decide how to answer, and it does nothing to ease the anxiety coiling in Dean’s stomach. Impossible scenarios are running through his head. Terrible things that could be happening that are going to throw him headfirst back into the goddamn game. The Apocalypse 2.0. God Gone Wild. Hell, maybe that bizarro universe Dean got tossed into back when Zachariah was playing him like a sock puppet is happening now, and there’s been reports of the first outbreak or some shit. It could be anything. And that’s what makes Dean nervous.

Finally, Kevin says, “They, um. They don’t. From what I can tell. I don’t pick up on everything they’re saying, but I catch some of it. Like.”

“Angel radio,” Dean supplies. “Only if you’re in range.”

“Yeah,” Kevin sighs, relieved that someone gets it. “Just bits and pieces of it. But. From what I’ve heard, they’re pretty adamant that you don’t know what’s going on. But I didn’t… I don’t like that. I don’t know why. That’s why I felt like I had to find you, I guess.”

Next to him, Cas frowns as he picks up on bits and pieces of the conversation that filter through the phone. Dean wonders, briefly, how much of it he can hear. It’s overshadowed by his own sinking stomach at Kevin’s admission that whatever’s going on, Heaven wants him out of it. “So, what, the end of the world is coming again, but I already filled out my punch card so I don’t get to help this time? Why wouldn’t they want me to know?”

“I don’t think it’s the end of the world,” Kevin says slowly. “I mean, they talk about it, but. It’s mostly in past tense? So I don’t think they’re worried about that right now? But they are... worried. They’re gonna try to find him before you do.”

There’s a lump in Dean’s stomach that won’t disappear no matter how hard he swallows. “Find who?”

“Oh,” Kevin murmurs faintly. There’s shuffling on the other end of the line as Kevin fidgets. He takes a shaky breath. “The angels say he’s no longer in a cage. Your brother, Dean. They’re saying Sam Winchester walks free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told ya we'd deal with that eventually :) surprise?
> 
> also, you can see the inspiration for the stained glass window [here](https://twitter.com/cardigancastiel/status/1353457003297820672?s=21)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s terrified. He’s angry. And he feels like he’s being tugged in two different directions. It’s easy, right now, to say that he wants to go back home to Cas and to Claire and to the house that he made his own, to a job that treats him well and a town that knows who he is for reasons other than seeing his face slapped on some _Wanted_ poster. He doesn’t know what will happen when he sees Sam again. Doesn’t know whether or not Sam will understand. And what if Sam doesn’t want the same thing? What the hell is Dean supposed to do, then?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe that sure was the longest i've gone between posting chapters my b my b <3 nursing school is Hard. n e ways HERE WE ARE. i hope this is worth the wait
> 
> content warnings for a buttload of angst (taps the label on the tin), references to j*hn winchester's A+ parenting, allusions to trauma that Will be further discussed in the next chapter, and depictions and discussions of grief. take care of urselves as needed
> 
> EDIT: i'm the worst wife ever i forgot to thank cait and sabi for holding my hand thru this chapter. i know i have thanked u guys every chapter but thats what u do when ur us and ur married. thank u for supporting my dreams xoxo this fic is for u always

There’s a duffel bag tucked in the farthest, highest corner of Dean’s closet, that’s been collecting dust since the day he finished installing the shelf and unpacked all his clothes. The bag itself hasn’t been moved since early November, but the contents inside have remained untouched for even longer. Dean had thrown Sam’s favorite gun in there, after that god-awful day he’ll never forget, and he’d only glanced back at it once as he hauled ass outta Kansas.

His hands shake now, as he presses up on his toes and stretches, pushing old t-shirts out of the way to get to it. They shake in a way they used to, years ago, before Dean got used to the feeling of a gun in his hands and stopped being nervous about whether or not his shots would hit their mark.

Dean wraps his fingers around the rough canvas strap. He has to take a deep, steadying breath before he feels as though he’s ready to pull the bag off the shelf. It hits the ground with an anticlimactic thud.

Castiel is sitting on the edge of Dean’s bed when Dean comes back, looking every inch the angel he no longer is with a ramrod-straight spine and eyes that seem to be seeing somewhere much farther than this room. He doesn’t even flinch when Dean drops the bag onto the bed, just a few feet away from him. It sours Dean’s stomach in a way he can’t really put into words. In another life, in a better world, Cas in his _bed_ could have been for much better circumstances. But that ain’t the world they got stuck in, and Dean hates that he’s not even surprised something came up right before they could even properly begin.

“I’m sorry,” Dean mutters, a little bit helplessly, because he’s not sure what else to say. He keeps his eyes on the bag, on the zipper, on his trembling fingers as he opens it quickly. Everything’s as he remembers. The weapons he had justified keeping, even as he left everything else for Bobby. Sam’s gun. A machete. The shotgun filled with salt rounds. A box of silver bullets. The demon knife. His dad’s journal. All of this used to feel like all his life amounted to. Dean barely even recognizes it now.

“Why are you sorry?” Cas asks, sounding surprised. He finally turns to face Dean. And Cas can’t read minds anymore, but he still looks at Dean like he knows exactly what he’s thinking, and if there were ever a time for some good old-fashioned telepathy, Dean would want it now. Would make it a hell of a lot easier if he didn’t have to try and find the words to say out loud.

Dean forces out a laugh. He picks up Sam’s gun hoping that the weight of something familiar will calm him down. He’s not surprised when it doesn’t. “For fucking this up,” he clarifies, and he still can’t even look Cas in the eye as he says it.

“You didn’t—” Cas starts, before he cuts himself off. When Dean finally finds the guts to look at him, Cas has dropped his gaze to his lap, where he writhes his hands together nervously. “Dean. You don’t have to be sorry. I, on the other hand… I feel like I should. Apologize.”

“What?” Dean blurts out.

Cas’s expression shudders suddenly, his mouth twisting into a sour frown. He seems smaller than he is when he murmurs, “If I were… If I had still been an angel. I could have heard them. You could have known sooner.”

Dean’s head is spinning. “Cas, you don’t. I don’t blame you for that, what the hell? It’s not your fault your wings got clipped when you were brought back from the dead, dude. There was no friggin’ way you would have been able to know.”

“I know, but,” Cas says, exasperated. He rubs his hands on his pants and finally looks up at Dean. There’s a look in his eyes that makes Dean’s chest feel painfully, achingly split open. “I feel like… Dean, I was. I was so used to it, as an angel. It was always there. And it’s not, it’s not here anymore, but sometimes. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of how it used to feel. Just a short moment, the briefest flash of the companionship I had with me at all times. And I… I can’t explain it. But I feel as though I _knew_ something was going on.”

“Cas,” Dean says.

“I should have told you,” Cas finally murmurs, resolute and full of a guilt that should be too heavy for any human to shoulder. “The moment I felt like something was happening. I should have told you.”

Dean shakes his head. “What would we have done, Cas? Even if you had? There ain’t much we could have gone off of with just a feeling.”

The force of Cas’s gaze should be enough to send Dean stumbling back on his heels. And maybe it would, if this were two years and an Apocalypse ago. If it were before he had moved into Dean’s house. Before Dean had seen him groggily spill coffee on himself because it was too early. Before he’d sat at their kitchen table painstakingly helping Claire with her biology homework. Before he’d pressed his mouth to Dean’s like it was something he’d thought of doing a hundred times. Like it was something he couldn’t wait to do again and again. There’s still power behind that gaze. Dean will never stop being in awe of it. But he knows Cas now, and he knows that when Cas looks like that, it’s only because he’s scared.

“I don’t know what to do, Dean,” Cas finally admits. He sounds so human it still makes Dean pause.

“Stay here,” Dean tells him. He steps forward, moving before he even really knows where he’s going, until he’s standing at the edge of the bed between Cas’s legs, and he reaches up so he can hold Cas’s face in his hands. Cas leans into the touch and closes his eyes. “Take care of Claire while I’m gone. Make sure she eats breakfast, and that her homework gets turned in. Watch the next few episodes of _X-Files_ and lie to me about it when I get home. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Cas reaches up, and his long fingers wrap around Dean’s wrist with a tight grip that tells Dean he doesn’t want to let go. Dean gets it. Part of him wishes he could stay.

But it’s Sam _._ And Dean. He _has_ to. It’s _Sam._

“Be safe,” Cas says finally, and he tilts his head up in Dean’s grip and looks Dean in the eye. There’s something almost desperate about it. “Promise me you’ll be safe. And that you’ll—”

He catches himself. Doesn’t finish his sentence. But he doesn’t need to. Dean knows what he’s asking, anyway.

“I’ll be back,” Dean repeats. He kisses Cas softly. Once. Twice. Wishes he could do more. Hell, he wishes they had the time. Cas’s eyes are still closed when Dean finally pulls away. “Before you know it. Promise.”

Cas nods. His grip is still tight on Dean’s wrist. “I know,” Cas tells him, and neither of them comment on how obvious the skepticism in his voice is. Dean watches as Cas swallows around a lump in his throat. “I’m going to… Claire. You should say goodbye to her, before you go. I’ll go get her.”

Guilt weighs down Dean’s feet. He drops his hands, letting go of Cas, and Cas’s fingers linger on him for another moment before he lets go, too. Dean steps back. “Right, yeah. Yeah. I’m gonna. I gotta finish packing.”

Cas leaves. Dean listens to his footfall as he walks down the hall. Listens for Cas’s tentative knock on Claire’s bedroom door, and the low rumble of their voices before she lets him into her room. They don’t come right away, but Dean’s grateful for that. His hands are shaking so bad he’s afraid it might scare Claire.

He has to finish packing. On autopilot, Dean throws clothes into the bag, covering up the weapons. He pulls his gun out from the nightstand and puts it in there, too. Grabs the rosary out of the jar of holy water under his bed. After a moment’s hesitation, he throws in the dog-eared copy of the book Cas gave him to read.

It could be a trap. He knows that. It almost always is, when it comes to the Winchesters and coming back from the friggin’ dead. He feels underprepared. He feels out of practice. And over all of it, over the uncertainty of what he’s walking into and the fear of what he’ll find and the anxiety about leaving Cas and Claire alone, here, he feels an overwhelming kind of grief. Which. _Stupid._ Dean doesn’t understand what there is to grieve. He feels it, anyway.

He’s in the middle of debating whether or not he should pack clothes for Sam when he hears Claire and Cas coming back down the hall, and they’re standing in his doorway when he straightens and turns. Claire’s face is impassive, but theres a red tinge to her eyes that tells Dean she’s trying not to cry. He feels that, too.

“You’re leaving?” she asks. She’s so friggin’ young, and it knocks the wind right outta Dean that he’s putting her through this. He swore he’d never do this kind of shit to his kids. Never leave them in the middle of the night and make ‘em cry.

“Just for a couple days,” Dean says, and he feels like shit the second the words leave his mouth.

Claire nods. There’s a wobble at the corner of her mouth that she tries to hide by turning her head. “Okay.”

“Claire,” Dean says, helplessly, and he takes a step forward that breaks through a cross-generation Winchester cycle when he tugs her into a hug. To his relief, she hugs him back. Wraps her arms around him tightly and buries her face in his shirt and doesn’t even try to hide her sniffle. He kisses the top of her head. “I’m comin’ back as soon as I can, kid. Made the same promise to Cas, okay? Soon as I can.”

“You’ll be safe, right?” she murmurs. 

“Course,” Dean tells her. He catches Cas’s eye, from where he’s still leaning in the doorway and watching them quietly. Dean holds on to that, making a vow to them both. “Gotta come back in one piece so I’ll be able to fix the kitchen if your dad burns it down while I’m gone.”

Cas protests halfheartedly, but it gets buried beneath Claire’s huff of laughter as she pushes away from Dean. Her eyes are red, and there’s a smudge of mascara on her cheek that she wipes away with the flat of her palm. “Shut up,” she says, voice thick. She looks away from him quickly. “You know you’re just as much my dad as he is.”

“C’mon,” Dean groans. He ducks his head before they can see the way that made a tear or two spring to his eyes. “You’re gonna say that to me right as I’m walking out the door?”

“Yeah,” Claire says, and she gives him a cocky, teenagerly grin. “Just the right layer of guilt to make sure you make it back in once piece.”

“The kid’s a mastermind,” Dean tells Cas.

Cas smiles at them both. “We’ll walk you out.”

  
  


It’s at least a seven hour drive to Stull, so Dean guesses he’ll be there right after four in the morning. A few days ago he would have balked at the idea of driving through the night again. Especially after settling down. But.

But.

Cas and Claire stand on the porch and wave goodbye to him as he eases the Impala out of the driveway and onto the road. His bag is in the passenger seat next to him. He can’t help but wish it was anything else. One of them. Both of them. His whole life is them, now, and it’s… strange, going somewhere without them. It sits heavy on his shoulders in a way he can’t think about for too long. There was no way in hell he’d actually bring them along, though. Not with the chance that it might be a trap. Not with Claire being just a friggin’ kid whose already had her life uprooted by the supernatural once. No, they’ve got to stay. And Dean’s got to go. And every part of that fucking _sucks._

Dean puts Bennett in the rearview, stomach sinking ever mile further out he gets. There’s an ache in his chest that he can’t get rid of no matter how heavy he presses on the gas or how loud he plays the music. His hands are still shaking. He wonders if a hand to hold would make the trembling stop, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on that for too long. 

He stops for gas when he crosses the Colorado-Kansas border, since he didn’t fill up before he hit the road. Some twenty-four hour place where the cashier isn’t surprised when the front door jingles as Dean enters. She rings up his coffee and pack of gum tiredly, asking him, “Long drive ahead of you?”

“Kinda,” Dean answers, and he holds his hand out for her to dump the change into. “More worried about what’s at the end of it, though.”

“Ain’t we all,” she murmurs, and she’s back to reading her magazine before Dean even makes it out the door.

He takes a piss while the Impala finishes filling up. He’s shivering by the time he crawls back into the driver’s seat, so he blasts the heat as soon as he gets the car running again. Looks in the backseat hoping that he’d left a flannel back there or something. His heart sinks when he sees the pink of Claire’s favorite jacket on the bench.

Dean turns back around and puts the car in drive before he can do something stupid like cry about it.

The roads are damn near empty. Dean’s grateful for it, because it means he can push the speed a little bit. He’s not sure why he’s in such a hurry to get to Stull, anyway, especially since there’s nothing to prove that Sam’s even there. God knows Dean hadn’t stayed near his own grave very long after he’d come to, but. It’s somewhere to start. Dean’s desperate. And he’s… Well. He doesn’t know how to explain it. He’s just got a feeling.

He wonders, about halfway through the drive, if Claire and Cas were able to fall asleep. If they’re tossing and turning and worrying about him the way he’s worrying about them. Claire has school in the morning. Cas’ll have to take her, and Dean won’t be there to make sure they’re both up on time. He wonders if Cas crawled into Dean’s bed to sleep, if for nothing but the comfort and the illusion that Dean could have stayed. He knows that’s what he would have done, if the roles were reversed.

Dean puts in the mixtape Cas made for him.

God, he’d been a fucking idiot for not figuring it out sooner.

An hour out of Stull, Dean’s phone chimes with a text. Dean glances at it, barely, frowning at the 3am timestamp and Cas’s contact name. He supposes that answers his question about whether or not Cas had gone to bed.

_Will you keep me updated? If you can. Please._

There’s a lump in Dean’s throat and a hole in his chest. With fingers that still shake, he texts back, _yeah, when I can. Go to sleep. Get the kid to school on time._

_I will._

Dean puts his phone back down before he calls Cas or some other dumb shit that’ll just distract them both. Doesn’t matter how bad he misses Cas right now. It’s only been a few hours, he reasons. And Cas needs sleep.

He’s all too familiar with drives like this but it’s far more lonely than he expected it to be with no one in the seat next to him. Stupid. He hunted for a few years on his own, before he rolled up to Stanford and royally fucked up Sam’s life, so it shouldn’t bother him hitting the road on his own. Some awful part of him, though, can’t stop thinking about how lonely he’d felt back then, too.

With nothing else to do besides stare absentmindedly at the road and numbly switch cassettes each time they reach their end, Dean ignores the twist in his stomach and he starts to wonder about Sam. Whether or not he’ll know who Dean is, once Dean finds him, or if something so god-awful went down in the Cage that Sam came up repressed as all hell without even a suspicion of who he might be.

Christ. Dean had been in hell for a few months for the topside, but it had been _decades_ down there. So what the fuck could it have been like for his brother, who’d shackled himself to Lucifer’s ankle to save the world and had surely pissed off the Devil so bad it was bound to have consequences. And Dean—fuck. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do to save his little brother and it’s shit like that that’ll haunt him ‘til the day heaven or hell takes him for good.

He puts his foot down harder on the gas pedal, closing what little distance is left between him and his brother’s dying place.

  
  


* * *

Stull is silent, when he climbs out of his car. Just a place with people buried in dirt. The makeshift cross Dean threw together for Sam is right where he left it. The dirt is undisturbed, the trees still standing, and there’s not the spectacular smell of ozone that greeted Dean when he clawed his way out of his own grave. Dean doesn’t know what to do with the disappointment that he holds in his hands.

Dean crouches in front of the cross. Sam’s initials are still there. A little worn, from the weather, but there. Dean traces them with the pad of his thumb. He mutters, “Where the hell did they drop you when you came up topside, Sammy?”

He straightens up, knees creaking like they always do these days. He drops his gaze to the grass, in front of the cross. The pocket knife he’d left for Sam is gone.

It shouldn’t surprise him. Some dumb kid probably found it and ran off with it. Not like it was in front of a real grave, anyway, so what would anyone care about decency for the dead? Dean won’t let this sting him. He won’t let it claw through him like some ferocious kind of guilt he’s not ready to face head on. It’s a friggin’ pocket knife. At least the cross is still there.

Dean taps his knuckles on the cross. He thinks about ten months ago when he knelt in this dirt and mourned his brother and his nearly-adoptive father and his best friend. He’d heard wings that day, he’s sure of it. Some angel asshat who took mercy on the suckers who stopped the apocalypse and brought Bobby back to life. Probably the same one that brought Cas back but clipped his wings. Probably the same one that pulled Sam out of the pit nearly a year too late.

And what’s it all for? Dean bitterly looks at the ground and resigns himself to the fact that there’s some type of cosmic entity out there that didn’t get their fill in the first time so it’s coming back for a redo now, and making sure all the best players are around to do their part. Dean’s exhausted. He doesn’t wanna be a friggin’ chess pawn anymore. He wants off the board. Back to the life he literally built for himself out of the foundations of things other people hadn’t wanted. And he wants his brother. God, he wants Sam back so bad it makes him feel like he’s four years old again and reaching for a mother whose arms will never wrap around him one last time. He misses Sam in a childish way he never got to, before.

And none of it fucking matters. It’s the same story every time they come back. And the next time they play their parts, it’ll be Dean’s turn to go again. 

He climbs back into the Impala, covering his face as he starts to cry.

  
  
  


When the sun starts to rise, creeping over the horizon at an uncertain pace, Dean calls Lawrence Memorial Hospital and asks about any John Doe’s. The nurse sounds young, and new, and she’s uncertain when she tells him she doesn’t think anyone matching the description he gave has come in.

He exhales through his nose. “What, uh. What about a Jim? Rockford?”

“I can’t disclose—” the nurse starts.

“Please,” Dean whispers. “He’s my brother. I’m just trying to find him.”

She hesitates. He can hear the keys clacking on the other end of the line, and then it’s quiet for another moment. She sounds apologetic when she tells him no one comes up under that name, either.

Dean thanks her anyways and hangs up before she starts asking any questions.

He turns the phone over a few times in his hands, contemplating. Sam’s not at the cemetery, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s not at the hospital. Still, he could be in Lawrence. Trying to find money for a bus ticket or an old car to steal to hitch a ride to Sioux Falls. If this is anything like when he came topside, Sam will have already tried to dial Dean’s old numbers and any one of Bobby’s lines. Bobby likely slammed the receiver on him, so Sam will do what Dean did and try to go there in person.

He calls Cas right around the time he should be taking Claire to school.

“Hi, Dean,” Claire answers. She sounds tired. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy,” Dean tells her. “Cas takin’ you to school?”

“We’re just pulling up,” she says. “I answered the phone so he wouldn’t be on it while he was driving.”

Dean huffs around a laugh. “Glad you did. Was hopin’ I could talk to you before you went to school. Kick ass today, alright? You got that English quiz today? Once you know the score, tell Cas to text it to me.”

“Sure, Dean,” Claire says. Her voice is smaller, like she’s passing the phone over, when she calls out, “I’m headed in now, love you, bye!”

He hears it when the phone gets dropped onto the seat of the truck, and he hears it when Claire shouts a goodbye to Cas before slamming the door behind her. He hears it, too, when Cas calls after her, but. It’s all background noise, if he’s being honest. He feels like he’s been stunned.

“Holy shit?” Dean breathes, and there are tears in his eyes all over again. There’s fumbling as Cas raises the phone to his own ear. “Did she really just say that?”

There’s a smile in Cas’s voice. “She did,” he confirms. There’s the loud, rumbling roar of the truck as Cas pulls out of the drop-off line and likely takes off out of the parking lot. After another moment of hesitation, Cas quietly asks, “Did you find him already?”

“No,” Dean admits. “I, uh. I made it to Stull. Checked his grave, to see if the site was anything like where you dropped me in Pontiac, but. It looks exactly the same as it did last year. Doesn’t even look like it’s been touched.”

Cas lets out a controlled breath. Dean can almost see the look on his face, even a whole state over. Carefully passive. Only a hint of disappointment, Dean imagines, in the tired look in Cas’s eyes and the small downturn of his mouth. Dean misses him so bad he’s aching with it. “Did you call local hospitals? Searching for John Doe’s?”

“Yeah, no dice,” Dean says. “Even asked for Jim Rockford. It’s—”

“The name you use to find each other if you’re separated, right?” Cas finishes. “No luck there, either?”

Dean rubs at his temple. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “I’m, ah. I’m not sure what to do next. Logic is telling me to head to Sioux Falls. Sam might be going towards Bobby, but. I dunno. My gut is telling me to go to Lawrence.”

“Sam might be thinking that’s where you’d find him,” Cas hums. “It is significant to the both of you.”

“More so me than him,” Dean says. “Sammy doesn’t remember living here. We came here once, too, on a case. Said this place had never been home to him.”

Cas exhales into the line. “I suppose. But he knows it means something to you.”

“You really think he’d go there?”

Pointedly, Cas says, “You think he wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know,” Dean mutters. “That’s why I don’t fucking know what to do.”

“Go to Lawrence, Dean,” Cas tells him, voice soft. Dean _misses_ him. He can feel it in his friggin’ fingertips. “It’s only twenty minutes away from where you are. Ask people around town if they’ve seen him. Check the motels. Trust your gut.”

“Would you trust my gut?” Dean asks. “If you were here?”

“I always trust you,” Cas says automatically. Like it’s something he’s thought a thousand times. “It’s Sam. No one knows him better than you.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah. Okay. I’m gonna head to Lawrence.”

“Let me know when you get there,” Cas murmurs. “If you remember. And have time.”

“Cas,” Dean says suddenly. Cas hums to tell him he’s still listening. “I, uh. Have a good day, I guess? I don’t know. I miss you.”

There’s a smile in Cas’s voice that’s so prominent there’s no way Dean couldn’t catch it, and Cas says, “It’s good to hear that. I miss you, too. Mornings are not as enjoyable when it’s my responsibility to work the toaster. But I haven’t burned our kitchen down. Yet.”

“There’s still two other meals you gotta eat today,” Dean says easily. And he’s grateful for it. That he can tease Cas right now, crack a joke and hear Cas’s exasperated huff and not feel guilty for it.

“I will have a good day, I guess,” Cas tells him, mimicking the way Dean had said it, and it makes Dean laugh. Then there’s a beat. A moment of hesitation, and a lifetime of uncertainty in his voice as he says, “Dean, I…”

Dean’s heart is in his throat. His heart is five hundred miles west of here, in the palm of Cas’s open hands. He wants Cas to say it. He doesn’t want Cas to say it like this. The enormity of it all is sitting in the car with him, like a passenger who he can’t look in the eye. He doesn’t feel lonely anymore, and he’s never been more alone. Finally, Dean says, “I know, Cas.”

For a moment, they just listen to each other breathe. “Come home so I can say it, please,” Cas says finally. And Dean gets it, then. He understands with startling clarity that Cas is _scared,_ that there’s a part of him wondering if Dean will come back at all. Dean wants to reassure him. He wishes it would mean anything, even if he did.

“I will,” he says instead, and Dean knows he means it as much as he possibly can.

  
  


His first stop in Lawrence is some dinner that looks vaguely familiar from when he was a kid, but in all honestly Dean thinks he only really recognizes it because it’s just like every other family-owned diner in the continental states. It’s still early enough that there’s only one patron inside, an older fellow who sits in the furthest booth and stares at the window. The waitress smiles at him and reaches for a menu to seat him, but he just shakes his head.

“I’m sorry to bother you so early,” he says. He’s got a picture in his wallet of Sammy that’s just shy of a decade old, all smiley and gangly and too tall for his graduation robes, but it’ll have to do. Dean pulls it out and shows it to her. Her name tag says Jenny, and she takes the picture carefully. “I’m, uh. Trying to find my brother. That’s an old picture, he’d be a few years older, but. Long hair? ‘Bout this tall? He, uh. Last time I saw him he had, I think, a blue flannel on? And a jacket. I think it was green, but it might’ve been blue, too.”

She touches the edge of the photograph thoughtfully. Her eyes flicker back and forth between Sam and Dean in the picture, and she bites her lip. “I mean, it’s hard to say. Lotta people come and go, you know? We’re just a stop on a map. But. We have hot coffee, and Lorinda’s got a soft spot for people down on their luck, so she usually gives it out for free. If anyone is gonna recognize him, it’d be her.”

“She in today?” Dean asks. He takes the picture back when she hands it to him, tucking it back into his wallet, where it belongs, in front of the picture of his mom and right next to the picture of Claire and Cas on the front porch of the house.

“Later,” Jenny says, giving him an apologetic shrug. “She owns the joint, so she normally comes ‘round for the night shift. I can ask her to come in a bit earlier if you’ve got somewhere else to be today.”

Dean shakes his head. “Just looking for him. Could you give me a call, when she gets in? Or if you see him today. I’d really appreciate it.”

“Sure thing,” she tells him. She puts a hand on her hip and looks at him thoughtfully. “Can I get you something to eat before you head back out there? On the house. You look like you could use it.”

He takes a breakfast burrito and orders a coffee to go since he’s pretty sure he can handle that while he’s driving around, and Jenny won’t charge him but he still hands her a twenty anyway and tells her to keep it as a tip.

There’s only a couple of motels in Lawrence, and Dean can tell just by looking at two of them that there’s no way Sam would ever hole up there. He makes a list, then, from most likely to least likely, and heads in the direction of the first one while stuffing the last few bites of cold burrito into his mouth as he goes.

“How many nights?” the motel clerk tiredly asks, when Dean decides to bite the bullet and check in, certain he’ll reach a point today when he’s gotta crash.

He hesitates, uncertain, wishing for as short a time as possible, and says, “One, to start. Don’t know how long I’ll be here yet.”

If she’s put out by his response, she doesn’t show it. She just takes the cash he hands her for the night and hands him back some change and pops her bubblegum when she turns around to get his room key for him. She’s not surprised, either, when Dean pulls the same picture out of his wallet and asks her if she’s seen Sam, just shrugging like she’s not sure either way.

Dean finds his room and dumps his duffel bag on the bed, and he takes a second to take another piss and splash some cold water on his face in hopes that it’ll make him feel more like a human. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he can hardly recognize himself. He doesn’t look like the kid who grew up without a permanent address, the troublemaker who threw one too many punches in high school, the punk who spent the better part of his 20s pissing off the law. He doesn’t see the young, stupid fool who’d rather sell his soul than live in a world without his kid brother.

His reflection hasn’t changed. Those are still his eyes, and that’s his nose, and his cheekbones, and his mouth. That’s still his hair, albeit a bit longer.

But he’s not the same. The lines at the corners of his eyes look like they’ve been put there by laughter instead of worry. His smile comes easier, when he’s happy and not when he’s trying to charm someone into giving him something. Dean used to see flickering memories of the pit every time he looked into his own eyes. Now he just sees the green of his front yard, and Claire grinning as she proves to Cas that she can do cartwheels.

If Dean looks hard enough, the worry lines come back. The scars are still there. But he doesn’t want to be that guy anymore.

He’s terrified. He’s angry. And he feels like he’s being tugged in two different directions. It’s easy, right now, to say that he wants to go back home to Cas and to Claire and to the house that he made his own, to a job that treats him well and a town that knows who he is for reasons other than seeing his face slapped on some _Wanted_ poster. He doesn’t know what will happen when he sees Sam again. Doesn’t know whether or not Sam will understand. And what if Sam doesn’t want the same thing? What the hell is Dean supposed to do, then?

It does him no good to dwell on it in some skeevy motel staring at a reflection that’s distorted from the age of the mirror. He’s got work to do. So he works.

He changes into something that doesn’t look like it was worn during a seven hour spontaneous road trip, and he takes his gun and the demon knife out of the duffel just in case. It feels almost like old times when he slides behind the wheel of the Impala again, except for the nausea coiling in his stomach. Dean tucks both the weapons in the glove compartment and hits the road.

There’s not much of a plan, save for driving around town like a jackass and leering at strangers who look about Sam’s height to see if the Sasquatch is just wandering down the town square. Dean makes a pit-stop at a few motels, leaving his first name with each clerk and the message, _Meet up in Poughkeepsie?_ just in case any of them see Sam roll through. He stops at gas stations and at the tiny ass library tucked between a tattoo parlor and a smoke shop, but he gets the same response everywhere he goes.

It’s just after noon when some pimple-faced teenager at the McDonald’s curls his lip and snidely tells Dean, “Maybe if you had an updated picture, it’d be easier to tell.”

“I’ll think of that next time he goes missing and I’m trying to track him down with what I have,” Dean snaps. He’d been hungry, and that had been the only reason he’d gone in, but his anger overtakes it quickly and leaves him feeling empty in a new way. He sits his ass down on some bench he’s half sure is on KU’s campus just to have a place to stew until he can chill out, and he digs his phone out of his pocket.

His finger hesitates over Cas’s contact, only just catching him before he would have dialed it. Dean’s tired, and he’s cranky, and his brother is out there somewhere and Dean has no leads on where to look, and some punk-ass kid got under his skin in a way he can’t really justify. And it _sucks_ because the only thing he can think of that could make this whole thing seem less friggin’ useless is over five hundred miles away and trying not to burn down their kitchen.

It’s stupid to call Cas again, Dean decides, but he keeps staring at the number anyway. They already talked today, and he’s not that much of a damn loser. He’s just. He’s used to telling Cas nearly every part of his day, is all. Probably.

Dean sighs and drops his phone back into his pocket. He leans against the back of the bench, raising his hands to his face and scrubbing at his eyes as his lack of sleep finally catches up to him.

He could go back to the room and take a cat nap. He _should,_ probably, instead of getting behind the wheel again and risking some stupid accident.

Lunch, first, he decides, and then he’ll cut his losses for the afternoon and resign himself to a few fitful hours of sleep before it’s back to searching and trying to get himself and Sammy to Bennett as soon as possible.

God, he hopes Sam likes Bennett.

Claire’ll love him, Dean thinks absentmindedly, as he strides back towards his car. She’s always looking for new people to antagonize, and Dean’s pretty sure the kid can’t go wrong with having more people to call family. And Sam would like the house. God, Dean hopes he likes the house.

His phone rings, when he’s fumbling with car keys and half distracted, and even though every part of his body is begging him to be hopeful, Dean pushes it down and answers the call without looking to see who it is. “Hello?”

The person on the other end of the line speaks, and Dean nearly falls to his knees.

  
  
  


Lorinda York lives in a two-story house with a wraparound porch that’s only three streets to the north of where the Winchester’s used to live, back when they were a picture-perfect nuclear family. There are children’s bikes and helmets and scooters all over her front yard, and when Dean climbs out of the Impala, he can hear the kids they probably belong to shrieking in delight from the backyard.

There’s a fat orange cat sitting on a lawn chair on the porch, and she lazily raises her head when the floorboards creak under Dean’s feet. They blink at one another, before the thing starts to purr so loudly Dean can hear it even on the other end of the porch. Faintly, Dean wonders if Cas fed the stray cat this morning.

Dean knocks on the door of Lorinda’s house, carefully avoiding the Christmas wreath that is still hung up even though they’re well into March. Inside the house, he can hear thundering steps down the stairs, then a young girl shouting for her mother to come answer the door. It reminds Dean so much of Claire that he can’t help but grin.

The door swings open, and a woman who looks so much like Missouri Moseley that it nearly sends Dean staggering backwards peers at him curiously. She’s got a stained apron on, and after she looks him up and down she gives him a gummy smile. “Dean?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers. His eyes dart to the pitcher of iced tea she’s got in her hands. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Lorinda looks down like she’d forgotten what she was holding, and she lets out a bright and airy laugh that makes Dean feel at home. She steps to the side, ushering him in and saying, “Course not, I wouldn’t ‘a told you to come on over if it was a bad time. My son, he’s just got all his lil’ buddies out back, I was just gettin’ ready to take ‘em out some drinks. Can I pour you some to drink?”

“Oh, I don’t wanna impose,” Dean tells her, cheeks flushing just from the kind hospitality.

“You’re right, it’ll put me in a real pickle addin’ one more cup to the eight I already got ready to go,” Lorinda tells him solemnly. She gestures for him to follow her into the kitchen, so Dean does, listening as she continues, “Tell you what, this is the best damned iced tea you’ll ever have, and you can take that to the bank. Secret recipe passed down from mama to mama ‘til it made its way to my old hands.”

Dean takes the cup she offers him. It’s cool to the touch, condensation already on the outside of the glass. And she’s right. It is the best damned ice tea he’s ever had. She grins when she tells him as such.

He sits, as patient as he can be in a situation like this, as Lorinda hums under her breath and pours the rest of the drinks for her son and her friends. If she’s put out by having a stranger in her house, she doesn’t show it at all. Then again—

“I’ll be right back,” she announces, balancing the drinks on a tray and moving towards the sliding door. “Just gotta water the gremlins. Stay cozy.”

“Can I help?” Dean offers, realizing a bit too late that it’s something he should have done sooner, but Lorinda just waves him off.

“Those boys outside catch a whiff of you, you’ll be subject to their questionin’ for the better part of an hour,” she tells him, nudging the door with her hip and sliding it open. “Trust me, they got more curiosity than the damn cat, I’m doin’ you a favor.”

So Dean sits.

He can hear Lorinda out there, as she hands out drinks. Mostly he hears the boys start yelling and talking over one another in excited voices until hers rises above all of them and they fall silent to listen to her. It’s wonderfully childish, and it makes Dean smile.

Dean looks around. It’s a nice house. Bigger than his, though it doesn’t take much. Lived in. A couch with a blanket half folded on one of the seats. Homework on the counter that didn’t get put away right. Cleats and ballet slippers by the door that Dean assumes leads to the garage. It’s exactly the kind of place he’d imagine a diner owner to live in, and it makes his chest ache for his own couch at kitchen table back at home.

Belatedly, he sees a scuff of some kind near the front door, where the rug got jostled and kicked back. Dean goes to fix it, putting his foot on the edge of the rug and starting to put it back into place when he stops, suddenly, and looks at the mark again.

Paint.

He pushes the rug back further. Dean’s not even all that surprised when he sees the demon trap underneath.

The garage door opens when Dean’s squatted down in front of the rug, tracing the demon trap with his finger, and Dean panics, straightening immediately and instinctively reaching for the knife in his jacket pocket. There’s some quiet shuffling from the part of the kitchen that’s out of Dean’s line of sight, and a small, almost familiar cough. Dean freezes.

A rustle of papers. Probably the mail being dropped on the counter. Something being put in the sink. Then a voice calling out, “Lorinda?”

Dean’s feet are moving before he even truly processes it. He crosses the floor in just a few short strides, footfall heavy in ways he usually doesn’t allow them to be. But he doesn’t care. He’s not trying to sneak into this. He’s trying to—

They both stop in their tracks. Dean’s not sure he’s breathing. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, and the demon knife clatters out of his sweaty palm and onto the ground with a dull thud. Dean blinks, and he’s still there.

“Dean,” Sam says, relieved. His shoulders sag. He looks just as small as the gangly high school graduate from the picture in Dean’s wallet, and Dean’s about three seconds from falling entirely apart at the thought of it. “You came.”

Silver. Holy water. Iron. Dean should test him, and he knows that. But he doesn’t care.

“Hiya, Sammy,” he chokes out, and he reaches for his baby brother to tug him into a desperate, bone-crushing hug.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reassuring you all now that sam is not soulless in this fic and that he has been brought back in one piece! any references to him not seeming the same are in regards to his trauma from the cage
> 
> with that, content warnings in this chapter for depictions and discussions of trauma, probably unhealthy coping mechanisms, and descriptions of guilt. take care of yourselves!

Sam is exactly like Dean remembers him, down to the exasperated sigh he lets out the second Dean puts in one of his old cassettes, and yet the longer they sit together in silence, the more Dean starts to think that the man sitting next to him is nothing like the kid he grew up alongside at all.

It is. It’s _Sam._ And Dean knows it, somewhere deep in his gut—a heart-wrenching kind of certainty that’s hard-earned from far too much exposure to things that look like Sam and aren’t. More than anything, Dean is certain that it wouldn’t feel like this if it wasn’t really Sam. So it is, and he knows that. Hell, he trusts that. But. Something’s changed.

Uncomfortably, Dean starts to realize that it’s _them._ They’ve changed. Both of them, and for entirely different reasons that Dean can’t think about for too long without feeling like the guilt of it is gonna choke him to death. But Sam, he just… He just got out of _Hell,_ for Christ’s sake. Of course he’s not the same.

Sam mutters something about needing a shower, the second they get into the motel room, and half a minute later Dean hears the door click shut and the sound of the water starting up. He sits on the edge of his bed and stares at his hands until he can’t even see the shape of them anymore. He doesn’t know what to do with them, now. He wants to curl it into a fist and start swinging. He wants to put a hammer in it and take down another wall back at home. He wants to pull Sam in for another hug, like this one will make up for the last ten months, and he wants to drive home and ruffle Claire’s hair when he walks in the door and he wants to use his hands to make his family dinner like he always does.

Instead of doing any of that, Dean wipes away the tears from underneath his eyes. It’s all he can do at the moment.

Dean sets himself to work cleaning up, though there really isn’t much to do since he wasn’t here all that long before taking off again. He throws his food wrappers away. Pulls Sam’s clothes out of his bag and lays it on the other bed. Toes his shoes off and places them neatly by the door. He feels restless, and he feels like unpacking would make his skin stop itching, but he doesn’t want to settle into this place. He just wants to feel like he’s at home.

When he runs out of shit to do, he swallows his nerves and digs his phone out of his pocket to dial Bobby’s cell.

“What?” Bobby answers gruffly.

“Good to hear from you, too,” Dean mutters. There’s a headache forming behind his right eye, and he rubs at it tiredly. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Damn wraith in Platte City nearly put my ass into an early retirement,” Bobby snaps. “Gettin’ too old for this shit, boy, that’s why I plant my sorry ass at home much as I can. Friggin’ Rufus and his damned need for supervision every other case.”

Dean pauses. “You’re in Missouri?”

Bobby grunts over the line, but it’s another moment before he really responds. “Yeah. Just about to leave’n head back home.”

“Don’t,” Dean says bluntly, panic rising in his throat.

“What?”

God, his hands are shaking again, and no amount of deep breaths he takes will calm him down. Dean doesn’t want to _do this._ How the hell is he supposed to? This doesn’t feel like the kind of thing you just drop on someone over a phone call.

But.

He’d want to know, even if it was over the phone. And Dean, he isn’t gonna keep this from Bobby, not when he knows it in his bones that he’d be desperate to know as soon as friggin’ possible if it was his kid that had come back crawling out of the ground that buried them.

“You gotta come to Lawrence, Bobby,” Dean tells him, on an unsteady breath.

For a moment, Bobby’s just quiet. He sounds weary when he says, “What’s in Lawrence?”

“Me,” Dean answers. He squeezes his eyes shut. In the bathroom, the shower squeaks as the water is turned off, and the shower curtain rustles noisily even through the door. Dean can’t really breathe as he finishes, “And Sammy.”

“Dean,” Bobby snaps, warningly, then he sucks in a sharp breath that Dean _knows_ wasn’t on purpose, and hell if that doesn’t make the pressure in his lungs feel even heavier. “Boy, don’t… That ain’t a funny joke and you know it. Now tell me you ain’t three drinks away from turning up in some ditch somewhere, dead as a doornail.”

And Dean gets it. He _does._ If he were a smarter man, he would’ve been skeptical when Kevin had called, too. Wouldn’t have hauled ass out to Kansas based off of the word of some anxious-sounding sixteen year old. But Dean’s a damn fool and he knows it, and he’s lucky as hell that it worked out for him this time, so he just says, “I’m serious, Bobby.”

“How?” Bobby breathes out. “How the hell did he get out of that damn cage?”

The bathroom door swings open, and Sam hesitantly comes out wearing boxers and an old t-shirt. He’d brought a backpack with him, when they’d left Lorinda’s, but Dean doesn’t think he has any clothes in there. So he points to the bed where Sam’s old clothes had been laid out, just in case he’d need them, and if Sam’s surprised by it, it doesn’t show on his face.

“I dunno,” Dean says. “I’m not even sure we have a place to start looking for answers.”

“Damn,” Bobby stutters out, and his voice is thick in the way it only gets when he’s choked up about something. “God dammit. Shit. Alright, Platte City ain’t too far from Lawrence, I can be there in less than an hour. You boys stayin’ somewhere?”

Sam catches Dean’s eye as he shrugs his jacket over his shoulders. “Bobby? He’s alive?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, both of them. He opens his mouth again to offer the phone to Sammy, but he looks away quickly, so Dean doesn’t bother. Kid’s probably overwhelmed, Dean thinks, and he’s not gonna force Sam to take a call when there’s still a shitton of stuff they’ve got to talk about on their own. Bobby’ll be here soon enough anyway. “I’ll text you the name of the place, and our room number.”

“Dean,” Bobby says, before Dean can hang up. They both pause.

Across the room, Sam is staring quietly out the window. There’s a far away look in his eyes. It’s a familiar, too _damn familiar,_ and it starts to sit uncomfortably in Dean’s gut. Dean forces himself to look away.

“Yeah,” he says, even though Bobby hadn’t finished his sentence. “I know.”

Dean hangs up without another word, and tosses the phone onto his bed. He pushes himself up out of the chair he’d been sitting in and goes to the sink to splash some cold water against his face. It helps, for a second, to clear his mind. With the water still running, Dean gives himself a minute to try and calm the thrumming underneath his skin—the fight-or-flight impulse that had been buried underneath his grief until the second he’d caught sight of Sam again. He grips the counter like it’s the only thing that’ll steady him.

Still on the other side of the room, Sam says, “You’re quiet.”

And Dean huffs around a laugh. He shuts off the water, turning, and shoots back, “I could say the same for you.”

“I just got out of Hell,” Sam says, and the corner of his mouth quirks up like he thinks he’s a damn comedian or some shit. God, Dean had missed his bitch of a little brother so _fucking bad._ “What’s your excuse?”

“You just got out of Hell,” Dean echoes, and he raises an eyebrow. “You handle it any better when it was me?”

Sam huffs, and his gaze drops to the ground. “Yeah, no,” he says. “Guess that’s fair.”

Christ, they’ve got so much to talk about. Dean’s not even sure they’ve got the time. He’d gotten the unimportant shit, back at Lorinda’s house, but one warning look from Sam had told him to keep his trap shut about anything Hell-related until they were somewhere else. The basics he’d gotten then were limited to finding out Sam woke up three days ago, in front of the Winchester’s old house, and that he’d gone into Lorinda’s diner looking for warmth and a cell phone and left with a couch to crash on so long as he helped around her house until he got what he needed to get the hell out of dodge. Then Dean had showed up.

He sits down heavy on the edge of his own bed, quiet as Sam does the same. Then all at once, the levee breaks, and it’s pouring outta Dean’s mouth. “Sammy, what the hell, man? I mean, you were. You were _gone._ That was it. The earth opened up and swallowed you whole, and. What? Just spat you back out again? I mean, how the hell?”

“I don’t know,” Sam tells him, voice a little bit sharp. He wrings his hands nervously in his lap. “I mean it. I have no clue, I’m just. Back.”

Dean searches Sam’s face, not entirely sure what he’s looking for. But Sam doesn’t even look him in the eye. Grasping at straws, Dean says finally, “Do you think it was God?”

“What?” Sam asks, startled. He finally looks up. And, yeah, that’s fair, because Dean isn’t usually the guy to jump to God to explain unexplainable shit. Hell, Dean doesn’t think God had anything to do with this, but Sammy’s always had more faith than him when it comes to shit like this, so. If it’ll comfort Sam, then Dean will believe it. “Do _you_ think it was God?”

“Christ, Sammy, I don’t know what I think,” Dean says. He lets out a humorless laugh. “All I know is I was at home when my phone rings, and on the other end of the line is some teenager that, apparently, is the newest friggin’ prophet, and he starts telling me you’re alive and that it’s all the angels can talk about.”

Sam blinks at him, and Dean scowls and drops his gaze to the ground before he can do something dumb like continually throw shit at Sam when the kid probably needs a few minutes to process literally anything right now. Dean’s fiddling with a hole near his knee in his jeans when Sam finally says, “Home? You have a house?”

Dean flushes. “Oh my god,” he complains. “That’s not what’s important right now!”

“Alright, maybe,” Sam says, raising his hands in surrender. “But. Shit, Dean. A new prophet? So, what, Chuck’s dead?”

“I guess.”

Sam nods absentmindedly. He frowns as he says, “And the new prophet is a kid?”

“Sixteen-year-old named Kevin,” Dean answers.

“Christ, that sucks,” Sam murmurs, looking genuinely upset by the prospect. Which again, Dean thinks, is fair. He sure as hell wasn’t too happy about it, either. Quickly, Sam’s expression twists, and he asks, “Wait, sorry, go back. Bobby’s alive? How? I mean, I watched… I _felt_ Lucifer snap his neck.”

“Something brought him back,” Dean says, and then he frowns. “If he ever figured out what, he never told me.”

Softly, Sam says, “You didn’t look?”

“Of course I looked,” Dean snaps, but as quickly as it had come the defensiveness bleeds out of him before he even tries to open his mouth again. “But it wasn’t worth a damn. I was outta my head with grief, and any thread I pulled on that might have been a lead was broken before I could get halfway into it. Then I just. I couldn’t _breathe._ I needed air, y’know? And I told you I’d get outta the life and I had to drag myself free but now I got my own friggin’ bed and I got people who need me and it’s—”

He stops, taking in a sharp breath, and Sam tries to say, “Dean—”

“I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do now, Sammy,” Dean admits. It spills out of him all at once, and as soon as it’s out there, Dean feels like a puppet with his strings cut. His shoulders sag in relief that the weight they’d carried is gone now.

Dean feels like a bad brother. He feels like a bad father, and like a bad… _whatever_ it is that he is to Cas. He hates the uncertainty, and he’s ashamed that he is hesitating either way. And, on top of it all, there’s the friggin’ _guilt_ he feels that apparently there was some way to pull his brother out of the Cage but instead Dean had left Sam down there for a year while he played house and pretended the nightmares didn’t keep him up most nights out of the week.

“Neither do I,” Sam tells him, finally, and hell if that ain’t a relief. Dean laughs and laughs and laughs so that there’s no space for him to cry.

* * *

Bobby comes knocking with a sack of greasy food in one hand and a six pack of beer in the other, and when he catches sight of Sam on the other side of the room behind Dean he nearly drops them both. Dean doesn’t begrudge him for it, just takes the food and the drink and steps out of the way so Bobby can barrel forward and tug Sam down into a bone-crushing hug.

When Bobby finally lets the kid up for air, they pile around the tiny motel table and Dean passes out burgers. It feels achingly familiar. Just like when he and Sammy were kids and tore up Bobby’s house before dinnertime, crammed into their seats and fighting over elbow space. Sam eats like he hasn’t seen food since he got topside, and no one comments on it.

“So we ain’t even got a lead,” Bobby says, when Dean finishes summarizing everything he knows so far so Sam wouldn’t have to go through it all again. Bobby crumples up his burger wrapper and stuffs it into the empty bag. “I mean, hell. Dean’s resurrection left a blast sight big enough to see from space, and there were demon omens so obvious it dragged Sam’s sorry ass out there. And there’s just, what? Nothing here?”

Sam cleans his fingers carefully with a napkin, not looking up.

Dean’s having a hard time looking away from his brother. Afraid if he blinks too hard, Sam will fade into thin air like he was never there at all. Logic can tell Dean that it ain’t gonna happen like that, but logic also tells him that Sam shouldn’t be in front of him at all, so Dean thinks logic can kiss his ass. Slowly, so Sam doesn’t have to, Dean says, “I think it’s pretty obvious that whatever brought Sammy back is in no mood to be found. Damn good at covering its tracks, too.”

Bobby huffs around a sigh. “Y’know, I’ve worked cases on less information than this, but. Damnit, boys, I dunno. I don’t even know where to start digging around with this one.”

“You know, mighta been the same thing that brought you back,” Dean says suddenly, glancing back at Bobby. “You ever figure out anything with that?”

“For a while, the only explanation I could come up with is that it had to be Cas,” Bobby answers, slow and steady. He picks at the label of his beer bottle, eyes darting between Sam and Dean on either side of him, as he thinks it through. “Clearly that theory didn’t pan out. So I summoned Crowley next, to ask him ‘bout my soul, and the asshole told me that whoever brought me back made sure to go all out, because the deal Crowley’d had over me went up in flames and my soul was gone before he could even blink.”

Sam, finally, looks up at that. “So this thing snuck through Hell undetected and ripped up a soul deal to bring you back? Without anyone noticing?”

“I’m thinkin’ something with that kind of juice would be more than able to lift your ass outta the Cage, too,” Bobby says.

Dean frowns. “Yeah, but why wait ten months? Why not get Sam out of there right away?”

“Maybe it got hurt,” Sam says quietly, frowning at the table. “I mean, getting one soul of the rack and bringing it back, that’s just. Child’s play compared to taking something out of the Cage, right? So if it got hurt, or. Or if it just needed time to grow stronger…”

“But _why_?” Dean presses. “Why would something do all of this and not use it as some kind of bargaining chip to get something from us?”

With a shrug, Bobby suggests, “This thing’s as powerful as all get-out. Maybe there’s nothing we could even offer it.”

“This whole thing just,” Dean huffs, scrubbing at his face tiredly. He crumples up his empty wrapper, too, and hands the rest of his fries off to Sam. “This whole thing doesn’t make any sense.”

“What do we do now?” Sam murmurs. No one has an answer.

It’s still quiet in the room when the stillness is broken by Dean’s ringtone cutting through the air. His phone is still on his bed, so he stands and moves quickly to pick it up. Claire’s contact name shows on the screen.

“I gotta take this,” Dean mutters, and no one says anything as quietly leaves the motel room. When the door’s shut tightly behind him, he answers, “Hello?”

“Dean!” Claire shouts in his ear, and he’d be on higher alert if he wasn’t so familiar with the way her voice raises volume when she’s excited about something. “Dean! I passed my English quiz! I wasn’t really worried, but Ms. Banes told me after class that I got the highest score. She told me I should sign up for her journalism class next year!”

“Hell, yeah, kiddo,” Dean says, celebrating with her. He doesn’t have to fake the pride in his voice, though he hadn’t been worried about her quiz, either. “Knew you’d crush it. Journalism, huh? That something you’re thinking about?”

He can almost hear the way Claire shrugs over the line. “Never thought about it before, but. I don’t know. I like writing.”

Dean grins. “Yeah?”

“I guess,” Claire mumbles, shy now, and she’s such a kid sometimes that Dean can’t help but laugh about it. “It’s just a class. Whatever. I’ll have to talk to my counselor to make the schedule change, though, so.”

“Your dad could probably help you with that, if you’re worried about going alone.”

Claire huffs over the line. “I can do it by myself, I’m not a kid.”

“You are, too,” Dean tells her.

“Whatever,” she repeats, and Dean’s smile just grows. “I’m gonna think about it. Can we talk about it when you come home? You’re coming back soon, right?”

Guilt sits deep and heavy in Dean’s stomach, and his smile is wiped off his face. He wants to tell her the truth. Wants to tell her that he’s not sure what’s going on out here so he doesn’t have an answer yet, but more than that he wishes he could tell her he’ll be on his way back tonight, so he’ll be there when she gets up in the morning with freshly-made French toast on the table.

“I hope so,” Dean says instead, because he won’t lie to the kid. He’ll do better by her.

“How’s Kansas?” she asks, and there’s a tense pause where he can almost hear her weighing whether or not to ask her next question. “Did you figure out what you’re, um. Hunting?”

Dean glances back at the motel room, at the closed door and the curtain in the window that twitches when whoever’d been watching realizes they’ve been caught. Sam, most likely. Nosy shit. Dean shakes his head. “Not a hunt. Just, uh. Picking something up.”

Curiosity gets the best of her, and Claire asks, “What?”

“My brother,” Dean tells her honestly.

“Oh,” Claire says. “Cool. Is he gonna come back with you?”

Dean lets out a slow, measured breath. He looks away from the motel room, turning his gaze back to the west. Like if he looks hard enough, he’ll be able to see the silhouette of their house in the distance. “I hope so.”

“Cool,” Claire repeats. “I gotta go. Cas is calling me down for dinner.”

“Okay,” Dean says. His heart aches for reasons he can’t even begin to explain. “Tell him I said hey, alright? And if he wants to talk later, uh. He can call. If he wants.”

“I’ll tell him,” Claire says, but there’s shuffling on the other end of the line now and it’s clear that she’s distracted. Dean bites down the impulse to ask if she’d finished her homework before dinner. “Um. I miss you, okay? Yeah. And. Love you.”

Dean won’t cry. He _won’t._ “Yeah,” he agrees, and he’s _not going to cry,_ dammit. “Miss you most. Love you too, Claire.”

“Ugh,” she groans, in the way only teenagers can. Dean can’t help but smile at that, too. “You’re so lame. Okay, bye.”

“Bye,” Dean says hollowly, and the call disconnects. He holds his phone to his ear for another second, anyway, just in case.

Sam, unsurprisingly, is standing in the doorway of the motel room when Dean turns around. He’s got a raised eyebrow, pinched and confused. Slowly, he asks, “Who’s Claire?”

“Uh,” Dean says smartly.

And Bobby must have a sixth sense to know that Dean’s not ready to have this conversation, because he nudges Sam out of the doorway and interrupts, “Didn’t realize I drove all this way out here just to watch you two putter around like a buncha’ idjits. We hittin’ the road soon, or?”

“Wait, what?” Dean startles. “To go where?”

“Back to your house, I’m assuming,” Bobby says, raising an eyebrow the same way he always does when he’s not impressed with Dean being a little slow on the uptake. “Ain’t that long of a drive back to Colorado, is it?”

Sam looks between them. “Colorado? Your house is in Colorado?”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. Jesus, there’s so much he has to explain. “Yeah. It’s not a big deal. But—”

“We can do just as much research at your place as we can in some shady motel room that ain’t comfortable for any of us,” Bobby points out. “And I figure you’re itchin’ something bad to get back to your people.”

“Well,” Dean starts, then stops. It’s not like he can argue with that.

“Plus, you ain’t had me over since you bought the place,” Bobby adds, and his accusing stare makes Dean’s shoulders tense in guilt.

“We’ve been busy,” Dean defends halfheartedly. He doesn’t know how to explain that the idea of inviting Bobby down scared the hell out of him. If Bobby didn’t think the house was good enough, Dean would damn near die.

“I’d like to see it,” Sam adds, and he gives Dean an encouraging smile. “You got a spare room for me?”

Dean’s stomach turns, and he swallows thickly. “Uh,” he says. “No. Wait, um. Yeah. Probably.”

His face is on fire. He’s bright friggin’ red, and Sam’s staring at him like he’s not sure why his brother is acting like a fucking lunatic, and Bobby’s looking at him like he can see right through Dean’s bullshit. Hell, he probably can.

“I have a couch, too,” he finishes lamely, and apparently that’s good enough for them.

Sam packs up while Dean goes to the lobby and sheepishly checks out, a little embarrassed for booking a room he hadn’t even used besides to shower and pace back and forth in, but the clerk looks like she could care less. Dean texts Cas, while he’s in the lobby, and tells him that they’ll come around some time after midnight.

_Do you want me to wait up?_ Cas texts back immediately, and Dean’s cheeks hurt from how hard he tries not to smile.

_Up to you. Will you set up the air mattress in the living room though? Bobby and Sam will need somewhere to sleep._

Dean goes back out to the car, instead of waiting for Cas’s response, right as Sam’s closing the trunk of the Impala. Bobby’s at his car, leaning against the hood while he waits. Dean says, “You both ready?”

“To get the hell away from here?” Sam asks, and the corner of his mouth quirks up into a grin.

“Yeah, fair enough,” Dean agrees, and he pulls open the driver’s side door. To Bobby, he says, “Just follow me. Roads shouldn’t be too bad, especially as it gets later. If you gotta stop, call me. We’ll do the same if we need to.”

Bobby pushes off of his car and adjusts his hat, muttering gruffly, “I know how to tail someone, boy, didn’t need the lesson.”

He checks his phone, before he starts the car. Cas responded. Dean stares at the text message for so long he hasn’t got a chance to respond before he hears Sam slide into the passenger side and slam the door behind him.

“Who’s that?” Sam asks, glancing at Dean’s screen.

Tightly, Dean says, “Cas.”

“Cas?” Sam repeats, incredulous. “Cas is alive, too? You know, you really buried the lead on a bunch of shit here, Dean.”

Dean can’t help but laugh at that. It bubbles out of him unbidden. “You got no idea, Sammy,” Dean says, and he responds to Cas with, _not gonna say no to you bunking with me, dude._

They hit the road. Sam’s quiet, for the first half hour, though it’s obvious that he’s weighing his choices on what to say to Dean now that they’re alone again. He fiddles with the dials of the stereo and rolls the window up and down a few times before Dean snaps at him to knock it off. Then, petulantly, he crosses his arms just like he did when they were kids and shoots Dean an unimpressed look.

It’s not awkward. It’s _not._ Dean won’t let it be. Sure, he mourned the kid for damn near a year, and he doesn’t know what to do now that Sammy’s back, but. It’s still his friggin’ brother. Still the same kid that he knows better than anyone, the same kid that Dean grew up making sure had a better childhood than he could.

And Sam’s going through some shit, and Dean’s not gonna be an asshole about that, even if he’s itching to ask what Sam remembers about being down there. Wouldn’t be fair of him, anyway, especially since Dean spent so long bristling and changing the subject any time someone asked him about what the Pit was like.

They both tense up, as they drive past Stull. Dean’s shamefully relieved that he’s not the only one terrified to drive past that place.

Ten minutes later, Sam breaks the silence by turning off the music and finally asking, “You gonna tell me about what you’ve been doing these last few months, or?”

Dean’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. “I mean, I guess,” Dean tells him, though he doesn’t offer up anything other than that. If Sammy wants to know, he’s gonna have to ask some damn questions himself. “Sam, you don’t—I mean, shit. You don’t have to tell me but. Do you remember it?”

He doesn’t clarify. Sam doesn’t need him to. Levelly, Sam says, “Yeah. I do.”

“Shit,” Dean breathes out. He finally glances at Sam. “Can I. I mean. Shit. I don’t want to, like. I mean, I get it, right? At least some part of it, I get it. So you can tell me to fuck off whenever, you know? I’m not gonna. I won’t ask about _that._ But. How long…?”

Sam doesn’t answer right away. Dean doesn’t expect him to at all. But when Dean glances over at him, Sam’s gently running a finger along the edge of the army man he’d shoved into the ashtray when they were dumb kids, and it makes Dean’s throat tighten. After another mile, Sam finally answers, “A hundred years.”

“Sammy,” Dean breathes out, and he’d expected it but it stings all the same. His knuckles turn white with how hard he clings to the steering wheel. “Sam, I’m—”

“If you say you’re sorry, I’ll reach over and crash the car,” Sam threatens, and Dean snaps his mouth shut. “I told you not to look for me. I asked you to get out, Dean. I’m not. Jesus, man, I’m not gonna hold it against you, it’s not your fault. I’m not…”

Sam takes a deep breath. Dean’s terrified to look at him.

“I’m not okay, Dean,” Sam finally admits, and even though Dean had expected that, it feels like a blow all the same. “I’m not gonna lie to you and act like what happened down there didn’t happen. But we’ll deal with it, alright? And you’re not gonna feel bad about it because it wasn’t your fucking fault, and because you got the life I’d hoped you’d get once, you know? The house and the yard and the girl and the job. So don’t. Just. Please don’t apologize.”

Dean breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. He readjusts his grip on the steering wheel. Slowly, he admits, “Claire’s, uh. My kid.”

“ _What_?” Sam blurts out, so loud and sudden that Dean nearly jerks the wheel in response, and, yeah, okay, he probably could have led into that in a better way, but Sam’s still going, “I was gone _ten months,_ Dean, how the fuck—!”

“No, okay, wait,” Dean snaps, loud enough to cut over Sam. “Jesus. She’s not. Like, _blood_ or anything. She’s not really. I mean, I didn’t legally adopt her or anything, but. I don’t know. I’m raising her, I guess, and she, uh. Told me I’m her dad the other day. So. Fuck, Sammy, I don’t know.”

Dumbly, Sam says, “How did this even happen?”

“When a man and a woman love each other very much,” Dean deadpans, and Sam smacks him on the chest. Which, he decides, is fair, too.

“You _just_ told me she’s not biologically yours, Dean,” Sam bitches.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, no, she’s not. She’s, uh. Cas’s kid, technically. Maybe biologically, too, I don’t know, we haven’t really. I mean, it’s weird. The whole situation is so weird, Sam, I don’t even…”

“A nephilim?” Sam asks.

“No,” Dean mutters. Jesus, he’s fucking this up so bad. “Claire’s human. Uh, Cas is, too, now. He died, at Stull. Whatever brought him back clipped his wings in the process, so. He’s human. And Claire, she’s, um. Claire Novak.”

“Novak,” Sam repeats, staring at Dean like he’s grown a second head. Hell, that might make Dean feel better about the whole thing. Sure as hell would be less awkward than this. “Like, Cas’s vessel? Jimmy’s daughter?”

“Yeah.”

Sam shakes his head. “Dean, I’m gonna need you to start from the beginning.”

So Dean does. He starts at Stull, even though it makes both of their shoulders tighten and both of their breath come a little quicker. He explains how he’d sat there until Bobby’d lurched up, alive, and how whoever brought Bobby back healed him, too. He tells Sam about going to Lisa’s and being a fuck-up and how he’d high-tailed it out of there before he could really ruin their lives. And he talks about driving until he couldn’t stomach it anymore, all over the continental states until he’d finally parked his car in Bennett and put his ass to work until he could afford some shit house that he could fix up.

And he talks about finding out Cas was alive, and driving out to Pontiac to check in on him and leaving Pontiac with two people he’d never expected in his life. Then he can’t stop, he can’t stop talking about Claire, and how well she’s been doing, and her growth in school and her comfort in the house, and how she seems happy now and how damn proud that makes Dean. He talks about Cas settling into humanity so easily it scares him sometimes, and he talks about his neighbors and his job and Claire choosing paint colors and Cas making the window for their kitchen and he talks about the creepy attic he hasn’t dared to go into yet.

Because Dean’s _proud_ of it, dammit, he’s proud of the house with the crumbling walls that he turned safe and warm and he’s proud of the people that he took care of well enough that they became his family. He’s got a job and he’s good at it, and he has friends, and he has a regular friggin’ order at a diner, and Dean, he’d—he’d never been _built_ for that kind of life. He was made for motel rooms checked into after hours and for long winding backroads and a gun in his hand and monsters whispering his name in fear. He’d never wanted this, or so he’d thought, until Sammy got out from underneath John Winchester’s boot, until he’d lost one too many people, until he’d known how it felt to have Claire Novak smile at him and call him Dad.

“I didn’t know it would be like this, Sammy,” Dean admits, when he runs out of things to say, and he’s out of breath from how desperately everything had poured out of him. He’s almost embarrassed by it. Vulnerable at the fact that he just laid all his cards out and admitted to another hunter that Dean Winchester had finally, unbelievably, gone soft.

But Sam doesn’t look disgusted by it. He doesn’t look like he’s waiting for a chance to tease Dean about going full Stepford wife. No, when Dean finally looks over at Sam, the kid looks _proud_ of him. 

Flushing a dark red, Dean mutters, “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re proud of me or some shit,” Dean snaps.

Sam rolls his eyes. “I _am_ proud of you, dumbass. Dean, you sound _happy._ You sound like. You sound like a good dad. Like you really give a shit. Why wouldn’t I be proud of you for that, man?”

“Because I told you not to,” Dean says, lamely, because he doesn’t have an actual response to that and it makes his throat feel tight.

“When have I ever listened to you?” Sam points out, the annoying little brother that he is, and Dean scoffs halfheartedly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I think the whole thing is insane. But. I don’t know, man, I guess that’s kind of par for the course for us now, isn’t it?”

Dean can’t help but laugh at that. “You’re telling me.”

Sam hums. They let it fall quiet for a moment. Dean counts the mile markers as they pass. Finally, smugly, Sam asks, “Does this mean I’m an uncle now, or?”

“Fuck off,” Dean says. He can’t help but pause, anyway. “Do you want to be?”

“Uh, yeah?” Sam tells him. “Who else is going to sneak Claire her first beer?”

Dean just sighs, but he’s smiling when Sam turns the music back on.

* * *

Dean pulls into the driveway just after one in the morning, and the living room light is on. Bobby’s not far behind them, and he parks at the curb, but Dean waits for a moment before getting out of the car. He hates that he feels nervous.

“It’s a good looking house, Dean,” Sam tells him. “You fixed this whole thing up?”

He exhales slowly, and flexes his fingers when he lets go of the steering wheel. “Yeah. I’ve got some pictures before inside, so you can see everything we changed. Uh, if you want.”

“Dude, duh.”

Bobby raps his knuckles on the Impala window. “You gon’ sit in there all day?”

He’s not impressed by Dean’s halfhearted glare.

They get out of the car. Sam pulls their bags out of the trunk, his tiny backpack and Dean’s poor excuse for a packed bag, swinging one over his shoulder and handing the other one off to Dean. Dean makes sure the Impala is locked before leading them up the porch stairs to the front door. He warns them, “Claire’s probably asleep, so keep it down, will you? She’s got school in the morning.”

The air mattress is set up, in the living room, so the furniture’s been moved around a bit. There’s a few extra pillows and blankets that Dean kept stored in the coat closet already laid out. Upstairs, Dean knows, Cas tidied up his room and made up a space for another person to sleep in.

Around a yawn, Sam says, “Think you can give me the tour tomorrow? Been a long night.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Dean tells him. He turns instinctively when he hears puttering coming from the kitchen. When Cas appears, Dean can’t help but smile at him. “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, just as warm. He looks between Sam and Bobby next. “Bobby. Sam.”

Sam sticks his hand up in an awkward wave. “Hey, Cas. Good to see you again.”

And Cas _beams_ at him. He doesn’t even seem to hesitate before he pulls Sam into a hug, too, and Sam melts into it in relief. Dean looks away before his eyes can start to itch. “I’m happy you’re back,” Cas tells him, letting go. “Are you doing alright?”

“Just confused,” Sam answers, and it’s not a real answer and they all know it, but it’s late enough that no one pushes. “Glad to be back, though.”

“I can imagine,” Cas says with a nod. “I’ve set up my room for one of you, and the other can take the air mattress. Neither is the most comfortable, though I do imagine they’ll be a welcome relief compared to motel rooms.”

Sam frowns. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

And before Dean can panic, before Cas can look at him for confirmation of what to say, before anything can rise up in him and make him say something stupid he’d regret later, Dean says calmly, “He’s taken care of.”

“Oh,” Sam says, not comprehending. Then he looks, really looks at Dean, and his expression slackens just enough. “Oh. Okay. Uh, cool.”

Dean flexes his hand and tries to keep his expression neutral.

Turning sharply, Sam says to Bobby, “I can take the air mattress.”

“Like hell,” Bobby tells him, and he drops his bag on the floor of the living room like it proves his point. “You’re gonna sleep in a real bed. That’s the kinda privilege you get when your ass gets busted outta Hell.”

“Bobby,” Sam tries to argue, but it’s halfhearted at best. They’re all too tired for anything more than this.

Cas bids them goodnight first, going upstairs and into Dean’s room, probably in an attempt to make Dean feel less panicked about how obvious it is that they’re sharing a bed, and Dean’s stupid heart is pounding out of his chest at that like Cas just did some big dumb romantic gesture.

Sam hugs Bobby again, and no one seems surprised when Dean goes in for a hug, too. He thinks they’re all over pretending like it ain’t worth it to hold on to the people you care about. Dean turns off the lights before leading Sam up the stairs and pointing at the open door that leads to Cas’s room.

“Just through there,” he mutters, keeping his voice low so he won’t wake Claire up. “Bathroom’s that door, if you need it. My room’s down that way, if you need anything. Uh, we’ll be up pretty early to take Claire to school, but. You can sleep in. If you need.”

Sam catches him by the arm as Dean turns to make his retreat. Dean squirms under his gaze. “Dean, I,” Sam starts, but he frowns to himself and begins again. “I’m glad you came to get me. And, um. Thanks for letting me stay here.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You’re family, Sammy. You’re always welcome.”

“No, I just mean,” Sam tries again. “This clearly means a lot to you. So it’s. I’m just glad I get to see it, is all. And I’m. I’m happy for you.”

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean groans.

“And Cas,” Sam adds, pointedly looking in the direction of Dean’s room and grinning like the little shit he is.

“I hate you,” Dean says, instead of the _it’s not like that_ that tries to make it’s way out, out of habit or instinct or some other dumb reason Dean doesn’t really care to deal with. Because it _is_ like that, now at least, and Dean ain’t gonna waste his time pretending otherwise.

“Sure,” Sam says with a dumb, smug nod. He huffs a laugh out as Dean stomps away childishly, and it’s only when Dean is pushing open his own bedroom door that he hears Sam add quietly, “Goodnight, Dean.”

God, it’s like their kids all over again. Dean looks back at him, and for a second all he can see is his baby brother’s face earnestly looking at him from the other side of the bed that they shared until they grew too big.

And it feels good. Everyone in his house like this. For a second, Dean lets himself believe that everything will work out like this, and that any worries he’d had were for nothing.

“G’night, Sammy,” Dean says finally, and he waits until Sam shuts the door and flips the light off.

The lights are off in Dean’s room, but the curtains are open, so Cas is illuminated by the pale light of the moon from outside the window. He sits tentatively on the edge of Dean’s bed. “I didn’t want to assume,” he explains.

Dean crosses the room in a few short strides. They both sigh in relief when Dean gets his hands on Cas, pulling him up for a brief, easy kiss. Cas clings to his shirt like he’s not really sure he can believe Dean is truly here.

“Is it dumb that I missed you?” Dean asks. “Missed Claire, too. Is that dumb?”

“No,” Cas tells him. He kisses Dean’s jaw like it proves his point. “We missed you, too.”

Dean lets out a deep, relieved breath. Like he hadn’t already know that. He wraps his arms around Cas and pulls him in for a hug, just an easy press of their bodies together. Cas is quiet in his arms.

“Sorry our first night in bed together is like this,” Dean adds, mostly joking.

Cas just shakes his head. They’re pressed so close together Dean feels it instead of seeing it. “We have time,” Cas says slowly. “You aren’t… Will you leave again? With Sam?”

“No,” Dean answers on autopilot, but after a moment his brain catches up to him, and worry settles deep into his bones. It’s easy, he thinks, to say no when he’s holding Cas like this. It’s easy to say no when he’s imagining waking up tomorrow and surprising Claire by being home. So he admits, “I don’t know. I don’t want to.”

“I know,” Cas murmurs. And that stings just as bad.

Dean pulls Cas under the covers, kissing him quietly, until an exhaustion that has nothing to do with the late hour takes them over and lulls them both into a fitful sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may have noticed this fic is now part of a series!! i do have a sequel planned as well as a few one-shots leading up to that. **the sequel will resolve the plot line about how sam came back** , that plot line will not be resolved in the last chapter of this fic, however this fic will have a happy ending and ties up a few of the other storylines.
> 
> also, what the hell! only one chapter left?! i can't believe that. thank you all for sticking with me this long, i've loved all your comments and your excitement, and i'm so grateful that this little story i started for me and a few friends became something more people were excited about. i'll see you all at the last chapter with another sappy message, but for now, thank you and i love you all!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://constellationspdf.tumblr.com/)✨


End file.
